


Under Them Skies of Blue

by AmyPond45



Series: In the West [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Dean, M/M, Romance, Season 1, Western AU, Wincest - Freeform, established relationship with a lot of angst, pov: dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyPond45/pseuds/AmyPond45
Summary: A hundred years ago, in an alternate America overrun by monsters, Sheriff/Homesteader Dean and Gunslinger/Master Mage Sam reunite to search for their mother. Mary Winchester’s mysterious disappearance leads the brothers on a quest in which they encounter an angel, two demons, and a prophet of the lord. Along the way, they learn the truth about the family curse, figure out how to stop a demon invasion, and rekindle the flames of their complicated romance. Just your basic Wild West AU!
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: In the West [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544395
Comments: 29
Kudos: 47
Collections: Supernatural and J2 Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to last year’s [SPN-J2-BigBang](https://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/) fic, [Into the Great Wide Open](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425100), but you shouldn’t need to read that to follow the action of this story (of course, you’re welcome to do so!)
> 
> I couldn’t BELIEVE I snagged such an amazing artist this year! Many, many thanks to [Siennavie](https://siennavie.livejournal.com/) for their beautiful art (be sure to visit [here](https://siennavie.livejournal.com/104555.html) to give it some love!). In addition to the art, siennavie made several helpful suggestions as a reader which helped improve the story immeasurably.
> 
> Thanks also to [JDL71](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jld71/pseuds/Jld71) for their quick and thorough beta, and to [Wendy](https://wendy.livejournal.com/profile) for moderating this challenge so faithfully for so many years. This fandom is AWESOME!

The Gunslinger rides into town at sundown.

He leaves his horse with the blacksmith, prepays for food and water and new shoes with a gold coin. He’s dressed in black from his stetson to his steel-toed boots. His duster swings around his long legs like a ball gown as he walks, and his arms don’t hang loose from his powerful shoulders, but instead keep his leather-gloved hands posed level with his hips, where his gun-belt’s slung low.

Everyone in town knows him, or if they’ve never actually met him, they’ve heard of him.

Nine-year-old Billy Jackson watches the gunslinger with wide eyes as he walks down Main Street, headed for the saloon. The townspeople scamper out of his way, lock their doors and shutter their windows. Billy waits until the gunslinger walks past before darting out from behind the rain barrel where he’s been hiding to run to the sheriff’s office.

“Sam Campbell’s here!”

The sheriff turns his emerald green eyes on the boy who bursts through his office door, out of breath and trembling with excitement. He nods.

“Thanks, Billy,” the sheriff says. “You run along home now. Thank your mother for the cornbread.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sheriff and his deputies already knew. Billy hasn’t brought news, he’s repeated it. But the sheriff is kind. He’s always treated Billy and his mother with respect, and if there’s been times when Billy wished the sheriff would spend more time at their place, he can be forgiven. Billy’s father died in battle the year he was born, and Billy has been looking up to Sheriff Dean Winchester since he was little.

It’s dark outside. Most folks are home in their houses, doors and windows locked and salted. Billy creeps along the edge of the buildings, ducking under windows to keep out of sight, till he reaches the saloon. He doesn’t dare go inside; kids aren’t allowed, and even if they were, the Gunslinger’s in there. Billy can see him as he sneaks a peek through the window. The Gunslinger sits alone at a table toward the back of the room, facing the door, waiting. His six-shooter and stetson lie on the table in front of him, a glass of whiskey next to them. Billy can’t resist watching the Gunslinger for as long as he dares, observing the man’s stern profile and high forehead, his broad shoulders and thick neck. He’s sitting down now, but Billy has seen how tall the Gunslinger is. He’s built like a mountain lion, sleek and powerful and ready to spring.

Billy’s heard all the stories. Sam Campbell’s dangerous. He’s a killer. Rumor has it he killed his own brother, years ago, before the troubles started.

Rumor has it, Campbell and the sheriff have history. They were raised together, like brothers. Then something happened and they went their separate ways. Campbell became a Gunslinger, and Dean Winchester became Sheriff of Lawrence.

Shortly afterwards, Sheriff Winchester pardoned his childhood friend, so that Campbell could walk free. His skills were too valuable.

Times were too desperate.

Billy jumps when a hand falls on his shoulder. He whirls around, scrambling backwards in terror, gasping.

Dean Winchester smiles down at him, hat tipped low over his eyes so they’re in shadow, so all Billy could see is his strong jaw and white teeth.

“Thought I told you to run along home, Billy,” the sheriff says, not unkindly.

“Yes, sir,” Billy stammers. “I was just on my way, sir.”

Winchester nods. He watches as Billy turns to leave.

But then Billy turns back. He can’t help himself. He has to know.

“Since he’s here, I guess things must be pretty bad, out there,” Billy suggests timidly. “I guess the monsters must be getting closer.”

“Don’t worry about that, Billy,” the sheriff says, authority and confidence in his honey-smooth voice. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. I promise.”

“Yes, sir.” Billy smiles, too. It feels good to listen to the sheriff. It makes Billy feel brave.

As he runs home, eager to tell his mother the news of the Gunslinger, Billy rehearses what he’ll say. He knows she’ll cluck and scold and remind him to stay out of the way. But at least Billy’s seen him. At least he’s gotten a real good look at the notorious Sam Campbell.

Billy Jackson doesn’t know it, but that’s the last time he’ll see the sheriff or the Gunslinger. He’ll never see either one of them ever again.

//**//**//**//

“Hello, Sam.”

Dean stands facing the younger man, just inside the swinging doors. He knows he’s got his back to anything outside, knows Sam’s sitting deliberately facing the doors so this can go only one way.

The room is empty except for the bartender. Everyone went home when they heard Sam was in town, even old Dan Elkins, who never leaves the saloon if he doesn’t have to.

Sam’s nursing his whiskey, has barely touched it from what Dean can see. His hat and gun are on the table in front of him, and when he looks up at Dean his eyes are soft with emotion. He’s missed Dean.

“It’s been a while.” Dean tries again, relenting in the face of that steady hazel gaze. He could never resist those eyes. “Eighteen months, near as I can recall.”

Dean’s angry. Sam’s been gone too long. But he also knows he doesn’t have any right to resent Sam’s absence. Dean’s lied to his brother too much in the past to hold the high ground in their relationship.

“Eighteen months, three weeks, and six days,” Sam says, voice soft, hoarse, like it’s been a while since he’s used it.

Dean nods, acknowledging that Sam’s missed him, too. “What brings you here, Sam?”

“Mary’s gone missing,” Sam says.

Dean breathes out a sigh. His mother has done this all her life, left and gone into hiding where no one, not even her husband and sons, could find her. Dean’s frustration at the way she operates combines with his old grief at losing her when he was only four, so that now all he’s left with is exasperation and simmering resentment.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll be back,” Dean growls. “She’s probably just on a scouting mission.”

“Not this time.” Sam sets his jaw, looks down at the whisky on the table, turns the glass between his hands. “She left her journal. She never goes anywhere without that thing.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow. He lets himself feel a flash of jealousy at Sam’s casual familiarity with their mother. Dean never had that, after those first four years of life. When Mary left, she took a chunk of Dean’s childhood with her, removing the love and security that was only partially returned to him when Sam entered his life five years later. John spent most of Dean’s childhood years searching for a wife and mother who didn’t want to be found. When he eventually died trying, Dean’s older brother Adam took out his grief and rage on Dean and little Sam, with tragic consequences.

After Adam’s death, Mary reappeared long enough to take twelve-year-old Sam away with her, assuring Dean that Sam would be safe that way. When she revealed that Sam was Dean’s little brother, Dean wasn’t as shocked as he might have been because his love for Sam was already as deep as love could go between two young people bound together by grief and loss and the threat of impending disaster. Dean had kept Sam safe for seven years. Now it was Mary’s turn.

That was ten years ago.

Sam’s reappearance in Dean’s life four years ago was only long enough for the two men to admit the depth of their love for each other before Sam went East to complete his training as a Master Mage. But things were complicated. Dean had sworn to his mother that he would keep the true nature of their relationship secret, and when Mary resurfaced to reveal that secret to Sam, a seed of doubt had been planted between the two men. Their relationship had been on uncertain ground ever since.

Dean’s jaw tightens. “Not sure what you want me to do about that, Sam.”

Sam’s expression hardens for a moment, then his emotions get the better of him and he raises pleading, tear-glistening eyes to his brother.

“I need you to help me find her,” he says. “I think she’s in trouble. I think she needs us.”

Dean huffs out a breath, shifts his feet. “She never needed _me_ ,” he spits out. “She made _that_ damn clear years ago.”

“Dean, I think something’s happened. I think she wants us to find her, together. She needs us both this time.”

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t just leave, Sam,” he says. “I’ve got responsibilities. This town needs me. I’m their sheriff.”

“So deputize somebody to replace you for a few days...”

“A few days?” Dean scoffs. “You want me to help you track Mary Winchester. You know it’s not gonna take a few _days,_ Sam.”

Sam draws in a breath, leans forward in his chair and twirls his whiskey glass between his long fingers.

“She’s got a lead on the thing that killed John.”

This is news.

“I thought werewolves killed him,” Dean says.

Sam shakes his head. “Werewolves acting under the command of something else,” he says.

“You mean...” Dean can’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. 

Sam nods knowingly. “Exactly. Just like what happened to us four years ago.”

For a moment, Dean can’t think. His mind is flooded with memories of that strange, chaotic summer four years ago, the summer when he was reunited with Sam for the first time in six years. The summer when everything changed between them.

Dean shakes his head to clear it, closes his eyes briefly to shut out the sight of Sam’s beautiful eyes, intent and full of meaning.

“I don’t know, Sam...”

Sam nods curtly, looks down at his glass. When he looks up, his expression is steely, dangerous, and Dean’s reminded that Sam didn’t earn the title of The Gunslinger for nothing.

“I _will_ find her,” he says, and the dark determination in his eyes makes Dean shiver. “With or without you, I’ll find her and get to the bottom of this whole thing. You know I will.”

Dean believes him. He never doubts Sam when he decides to go after something. Together, they’ve protected the town and held back the forces of evil for nearly half a decade. Sam always follows through on his promises.

Dean feels his resolve crumble. He’s never been able to deny Sam anything. Taking care of Sam, protecting him, loving him more than a man should be capable of loving another human being — it’s in Dean’s bones to give Sam whatever he needs.

“Give me a couple of days to wrap things up here,” Dean says, feigning reluctance.

But Sam’s won. Sam will always win when it comes to Dean, and they both know it. Sam’s offer to reunite and work together again is something Dean’s been waiting for. Searching for their mother and the answers to their questions about their destinies is just a pretext.

Dean will always go with Sam when Sam asks him to.

//**/**//

Dean offers Sam a place to sleep, but Sam insists on taking a room above the saloon.

“I’ll just be in the way,” he says by way of explanation, averting his gaze. “You and Cassie have things to talk about tonight.”

Dean shakes his head. “Cassie went back East with her mother about six months ago,” he says. “Just about the time I was expecting _you._ ”

Sam lifts his expressive eyes and blinks. “Oh. I’m — I’m sorry, Dean. I know how you felt about her.”

 _Nothing like how I feel about _you,__ he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to. Sam understands.

“Anyway.” Sam clears his throat, lowers his eyes. Dean can tell he’s blushing. “I think I’d better stay here.”

Dean clenches his jaw, feigns a nonchalance he doesn’t feel. “Suit yourself.”

//**//**//

The Winchester brothers ride out three days later, heading north on the post road. It’s overgrown with weeds, long unused. The postal service went the way of the abandoned railroad years ago. The Eastern supply road is the only one still open, and even that hasn’t been safe for ordinary travelers in some time.

Sam thinks Mary’s gone north, and Dean decides that’s as good a way to head as any. He’s been meaning to get up to check on Bobby Singer in Sioux Falls for a while now. They’ll stop in on the old man, get the news. Maybe Bobby will have heard something about Mary.

Dean leaves Ellen Harvelle and Victor Henrickson in charge of the town.

“Always knew this day would come,” Ellen says. She lets Dean go after a long hug, glances past him at Sam, who stands silent and solemn in the doorway. “You take care of each other, y’hear?”

Sam nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Aw, Ellen, you know we’ll be back,” Dean says with a nervous chuckle. “Might take us a little while, but you can count on us. It ain’t like we’re leaving for good. Just got a little family business to take care of.”

Ellen nods, but Dean can see she doesn’t believe him.

Victor sticks out his hand, and Dean takes it. “See you on the flip side, brother.”

Jo Harvelle won’t shake his hand. She won’t hug him, either. She shrugs when Dean moves toward her, squares her shoulders and shoves her hands into the front pockets of her dungarees. Dean’s pretty sure she had a crush on him at one time, before Sam came back into his life, stole his heart and all chances of settling down to any sort of normal family life. Now all he sees is her flinty stubbornness, her fierce refusal to regret a thing.

“Goodbye, Jo,” he says, tipping his hat. He won’t apologize for whatever might have happened between them because he knows better.

She’d never accept his apology anyway, would pretend she’s got no idea what he’s talking about, and he won’t embarrass her like that. He respects her too much. Anyway, she’s a junior deputy now. Part of the town’s law enforcement and a member of the team in more ways than one.

“See ya around, Dean,” Jo says, letting her eyes flick up for a brief moment, enough for Dean to see her steely resolve before she shoots that hard look at Sam. “Sam.”

“Jo.” Sam tips his hat deferentially. He doesn’t have to be smug. He’s won.

Dean’s always been his, and Sam knows it.

Sam helps fortify the defensive spellwork before they go, closing the northern entrance behind them last. He moves along the perimeter like a dark, giant bird in his long cape, staff held high as he chants the protection incantations while power swirls around him like wind. Dean watches from horseback as Sam finishes his work, more than a little terrified, definitely impressed. Sam’s always been gifted, but to see his power on full display is a sight like none other.

As Sam returns to his horse, his staff retracts until it becomes an ordinary bone-handled knife, which he tucks into his belt. His cape returns to its normal dimensions as a duster. Even his long, wild hair seems to shorten so that all that’s left is a shaggy shoulder-length cut under Sam’s black hat.

“Pretty fancy footwork there,” Dean comments as Sam swings up onto his horse.

The horses snuffle their muzzles against each other, glad to be together again. Twins who were raised together, born the night Sam first came into Dean’s life, they’re getting older now. Dean’s grateful they’ve both made it this far, especially Romulus, Sam’s horse, who’s had to make the trek East and back four times now.

Sam blushes, dimples creasing his angular face, and Dean’s charmed. Little brother is a good look on him. Huge powerful mage who becomes a little boy again at a single compliment from his big brother is damned adorable.

“So, did you finish?” Dean asks after they’ve ridden in silence for a few minutes. “The magic degree, I mean. Are you a real-life Magic Master now?”

“The title is Master Mage,” Sam corrects, lips pursed, like he can tell he’s being mocked.

“Well, out here you’re just The Gunslinger,” Dean notes with a smirk. “The magic title is an Eastern thing.”

“You’re telling me nobody else in Lawrence uses magic?” Sam lifts an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe. Those wards are pretty complicated.”

“Ellen and Victor know the basic spells,” Dean says. “Enough to keep up the warding while I’m gone.”

Sam turns his head, studies Dean’s profile for a moment, and Dean resists the urge to preen.

“So you’ve been doing all of that by yourself.” Sam gives a low whistle. “That’s some powerful magic yourself, brother.”

Dean shrugs, glances over to catch Sam’s dark, admiring gaze. He fights to control the shiver that goes up his spine.

“Nothing you couldn’t do in your sleep,” Dean says. “You’re the one with the real gift. I’m just a guy who knows a few spells.”

“Your spells have protected that town for four years,” Sam reminds him. “I’d say that’s pretty serious power.”

A stab of resentment makes Dean’s jaw clench. “Pure dumb luck, Sam, and you know it,” he growls. “When you didn’t come home last summer, I didn’t know if we’d survive. What the hell happened to you?”

It’s Sam’s turn to clench his jaw and look away. “Nothing that matters now,” he says softly.

“What?” Dean tips his head, cupping his ear. “I didn’t hear you. Did you just say your eighteen-month absence didn’t _matter,_ Sam? ‘Cuz those of us who depend on you to help protect our _home_ every year might see it a little differently.”

When Sam still says nothing, Dean shakes his head, anger rising in his chest.

“Really?” he snaps. “You’re just not gonna tell me what happened? ‘Cuz I worried about you, man. I thought maybe you were hurt or dead. Do you know how that feels? Do you? Or maybe you just didn’t care that I might think that. Maybe it just didn’t occur to you because you wouldn’t care if _I_ suddenly disappeared for eighteen months without contacting _you._ Huh?”

Sam takes a deep breath, huffs it out with a roll of his eyes.

“Of course I would care, Dean,” he says. “I knew you were safe, that’s all.”

“You _knew_ I was safe...?” Dean repeats, frowning. “How could you _know?_ Huh? Do you have some kind of magical telescopic vision?” Dean gasps as Sam shoots him a look. “You do, don’t you?”

Sam sighs. “It comes and goes, but yes, I was able to check in on you a couple of times, make sure you were alright.”

Dean stares, indignation making him sweat. “Oh, so you checked on me, figured I was fine. But did it ever occur to you that I had no way of knowing if _you_ were fine? Huh? Did _that_ ever occur to you?”

“Yes, of course it did, Dean,” Sam says, wincing. “I just figured maybe we were better off apart for a while. You had Lisa, and then Cassie, and I — “ He clears his throat, nervous or stubborn or both, Dean’s not sure. “Maybe it was better that way.”

Something cold slices through Dean’s veins as realization dawns.

“Do you have a girl, Sam?” he asks quietly. “Is that what happened?”

Dean doesn’t have the right to ask. He knows that. And he sure as hell doesn’t have the right to be angry or jealous. He and Sam have never begrudged each other any other relationships. It’s always been a given, since the day Sam learned they were brothers, that they should both feel free to find other, more appropriate relationships. Dean had probably pushed Sam on that point a little too often, come to think of it, out of his feelings of guilt for keeping that particular secret from him even after they became lovers. That Sam would someday find someone else was something Dean had both feared and hoped for. Sam should have normal relationships. He deserved them.

Only now, as Sam pulls out a sepia-toned photograph and hands it over, as Dean takes it and looks into the face of a beautiful blond woman, all he can feel is jealousy.

“Her name’s Jessica,” Sam says. “She left me, about a month ago.”

“She’s beautiful,” Dean says honestly, handing the photograph back to Sam.

He’s not quite keeping up. He’s still back on Sam’s admission, his confession about having had this other relationship. And Dean knows he’s being a hypocrite, knows Sam’s aware of all of Dean’s dalliances. Cassie Robinson was even more than a dalliance. Cassie was somebody Dean could’ve married. And Sam probably knows that because his telescopic vision let him catch glimpses into Dean’s life...

That little piece of knowledge makes Dean livid. The idea that Sam was perfectly happy to check on him telepathically when he knew Dean couldn’t do the same with Sam.

When Dean’s brain finally catches up with Sam’s last words, it takes him a minute to process them. Then shame crashes over his earlier jealousy because he can’t help feeling relief along with regret for his brother’s loss.

“She left you, huh?” Dean peers cautiously at Sam from under his hat brim. “But you keep her photograph.”

“I loved her,” Sam admits. “She was funny and kind and smart. A lot like you, actually. You even have the same birthday.”

Dean blinks. “You don’t say.” Jealousy burns bright and hot in his chest. The thought of that beautiful girl stealing Sam’s heart, even temporarily replacing Dean, makes him wish he could shoot something. “So, are you gonna try to win her back?”

Sam winces, shakes his head sharply. “Nah,” he says, huffing out a laugh. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Knows what’s best for her, and that’s not me, that’s for damn sure.”

“She made you happy,” Dean observes, fighting to keep the bitterness out of his tone. He doesn’t have exclusive rights to Sam’s happiness, but he can’t help wishing he did.

“Yeah, she did,” Sam agrees softly. “She did. But after the fire, it was pretty clear that things wouldn’t work out between us.”

Dean frowns.

“A fire?” he repeats stupidly.

Sam flinches, nods. “I had a vision, every night for two weeks before it happened. When I told Jessica, she freaked. Thought I was trying to get rid of her, when all I was trying to do was save her life.”

“So she moved out,” Dean guesses.

Sam nods, rolls his tongue around in his cheek.

Dean tries not to stare.

“I was at school when the fire broke out. By the time I got home, the whole apartment house was on fire. Several people died.”

“But not Jessica.”

Sam’s jaw tightens. “I should’ve saved them.”

Dean has a sudden flash of a blond woman standing in a flame-filled room, her arms up in front of her as if fending something off. Her face is a mask of horror and fear, and Dean could swear there’s someone else in the room.

Then the vision fades and Dean blinks, shakes himself.

“Dean?”

Dean’s stopped in the middle of the road without realizing it. Sam’s giving him a worried frown.

“Do you — do you know how the fire started?” Dean asks, his voice trembling, unsteady.

For a moment, Sam’s eyes widen. He seems surprised by the question. Then he shakes his head.

“Uh, no,” he says, and Dean can’t help the creeping sensation that Sam’s lying. “They think it was an electrical accident. The apartment had been recently wired for electricity. Something must have shorted out.”

“Huh.” Dean can’t think of a reason to confront Sam with his suspicion, so he keeps it to himself. Besides. Dean doesn’t have visions, that’s Sam’s territory.

Except they both know that’s not true. Dean’s had plenty of visions. Just not much when Sam’s not around. Things only start to get weird when he’s in Sam’s presence, a fact that he first noticed just after the brothers reunited four years ago.

Even now, he thinks maybe Sam’s presence triggered Dean’s little waking vision of Sam’s girlfriend dying in the fire. That wasn’t Dean’s vision, it was Sam’s. Dean saw the vision in Sam’s mind, just as clear as if he’d had it himself.

For a brief moment, he considers the possibility that Sam had planned to kill her. It’s not completely beyond the pale; Sam’s killed plenty of monsters, even a human or two. Sam’s good with a knife, a near-perfect shot, has a reputation for never missing his mark. He didn’t earn the moniker The Gunslinger for nothing.

But then Dean dismisses that idea. The look on Jessica’s face in Sam’s vision wasn’t directed at someone she knows. More importantly, the presence that Dean sensed wasn’t Sam. Whoever was in that room with Jessica, she didn’t know him.

And neither did Dean.

So why does he have the creeping sensation that the presence in that burning room was familiar?

Dean shakes his head to clear it. Anyway, Jessica didn’t die. She left. Sam didn’t let the vision come true.

“You saved her, Sam,” he reminds his brother. “You didn’t let her die.”

But Sam’s guilt knows no bounds. “Twelve people died that night, Dean,” he says bitterly. “I could’ve saved them.”

Dean shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he insists. “You didn’t start the fire.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam says through clenched teeth. “It started because of me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do, Dean. Yes, I do.”

Dean doesn’t have anything to say to that. He saw Sam’s vision. Sam has every reason to feel responsible for those deaths. Dean would feel the same way.

“Well, you can’t save everybody, Sammy.”

“I could’ve saved _them,”_ Sam insists. “I could have warned them.”

“Hey, you gotta let it go, brother.” Dean shakes his head. “You saved your girl, right? That’s a win.”

Sam tilts his head, gives Dean a dark look.

“She’s not my girl anymore,” he reminds Dean, and Dean nods.

“Right. Sorry.”

But the thing is, he really isn’t. He can see Sam’s in pain about this thing, but Dean can’t help feeling relieved. Grateful, even. Jessica isn’t part of Sam’s life anymore and Dean’s far happier than he should be.

He’s such a jerk.

They bed down that first night in an abandoned barn. All the farms have been abandoned, most of them years ago. Roving bands of werewolves and other creatures took out the survivors and stragglers after the early monster wars.

They avoid the house out of respect for the family that used to live there, might have died there, and whose ghosts might still linger.

Keeping the horses safe while they sleep is a problem that Sam has already figured out. He purifies the old, moldy hay they find in the barn, multiplies the grain, and fortifies the local grass.

They bed down side-by-side in a corner of the barn that still has a roof over it. They’re not touching when Dean falls asleep, but when he wakes in the night Sam’s rolled toward him, curled up like the little boy he used to be, his face shoved into Dean’s armpit. Dean rolls away slowly and Sam follows, murmuring in his sleep. He slides one heavy arm across Dean’s chest, pinning him down, and shoves a long leg over Dean’s thigh, between Dean’s legs.

Dean sighs, deciding against pushing his brother away for fear of waking him. He lets his legs fall open so Sam has more room, curls his arm around Sam’s shoulders. Dean’s arm falls asleep before Dean does, but it’s comforting to have Sam close again. He tucks his nose down into his brother’s hair and breathes deep.

//**//**//

That night, it snows. It’s wet and heavy and mostly melts by late morning, but it gives them a sense for how unpredictable nature has become. Even the seasons don’t make sense anymore.

“It’s goddamn May, for God’s sake, Sam,” Dean complains when they start out on the North bound trail the next morning. “What the hell?”

“Something’s stopping spring,” Sam notes. Dean gives him a confused frown.

Sam’s twenty-second birthday came and went almost a week ago, unremarked. Dean remembered, though. He just didn’t mention it. The road has become a trail, another reminder of the passage of time, of the way the Earth here is returning to its pre-inhabited state.

They pause for lunch in the shade of an old oak tree that somebody must have planted thirty years ago. They watch a herd of buffalo cross the little stream below. A flock of birds flies South over their heads.

“The herds have grown,” Sam notes, watching the buffalo as they stop to drink in the stream. “Nobody’s hunting them anymore.”

It’s all wide-open prairie for miles with no sign of human habitation other than the road. In a few years, even that will disappear, fading back into the landscape.

They bed down out in the open that night. They lie side by side under the open sky, watching the stars. They don’t say much, but when a lone wolf howls, Dean takes first watch, lets Sam sleep.

A little after midnight, he wakes Sam, feeds the fire and flops down to sleep in the warm spot where Sam’s body lay. When he wakes up the next morning, Sam’s curled up next to him, asleep. He watches Sam’s sleeping face for a few minutes, marveling at his beauty, at the familiar-yet-different way that Sam’s changed since he was a boy.

There were moments last year when Dean couldn’t remember this face. He regrets never making Sam get his picture taken the way everybody back East does. Dean would keep that photograph in his breast pocket, just over his heart. Whenever he missed Sam (which, who is he kidding, he missed Sam every day while he was gone) he could pull it out and gaze at it for a few minutes, just like he’s doing now with the real thing, memorizing every mole and hair.

Sam’s eyes slide open. He blinks sleepily when he sees Dean watching him. Then he smiles, slow and secret. He knows.

They’re as in love with each other as they’ve ever been. Dean’s sick enough to hope that’s a good thing, but he isn’t so sure.

Sam had a happy life without him. Maybe he still could.

//**//**//

Dean’s grateful to be on the road. He’s missed it. The six years he spent looking for Sam feel like a million years ago. He’s forgotten how good it feels to leave humanity behind for a while. There’s comfort in knowing that the Earth is still alive, even without people living on her. Out here with only the local wildlife for company, Dean feels free. Maybe it’ll get lonely after a while, but mostly he thinks he wouldn’t mind it long-term. He and Sam could hire out as wandering hunters, helping out whatever human communities they find, then moving on once the job was done. Dean could get used to that life, he thinks. Maybe never return to Lawrence.

That night they bed down in the remains of an old sod house, probably built by pioneers or natives years before. It’s no more than a hollowed out hole in the side of a hill, just big enough for the two of them to lie side-by-side, but it gives them some protection from the elements.

“We should make it to Omaha by tomorrow afternoon,” Dean notes as he shifts on his bedroll to get comfortable.

Sam grunts his agreement. He’s been quiet most of the day, lost in his own thoughts, and Dean’s starting to worry about his state of mind. He knows Sam’s feeling guilty about not saving those people back in Boston. He’s grieving the loss of his girl.

Dean’s starting to think he needs to get Sam to open up. It’s been almost three days since he showed Dean the photograph. Three days since he told Dean about Jessica and what happened to those people. It’s eating away at Sam, making him morose and depressed.

Dean can’t have that. It’s his job to take care of Sam. Letting Sam wallow in misery and grief isn’t good for him.

“You reckon we’ll find anybody alive there?”

Sam shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe.”

“The last time I heard from Bobby, he said they were getting refugees from Omaha.”

“Huh.”

Dean says nothing for a moment. This isn’t going well. Time to change course.

“So, what was she like?”

Even in the dark, Dean can feel Sam frown. He waits while Sam processes his question until he realizes he’s holding his breath, so he lets it out on a long sigh.

“I can tell you’re feeling sad, Sam, and I get it. You miss her.”

He’s going out on a limb here. Guessing, really. But when Sam sucks in a quick breath, he knows he’s right.

“You didn’t tell her about what you do at first,” Dean guesses. “The dangerous, monster-killing thing. You wanted her to think you were just a normal guy with a talent for magic. Am I right?”

When Sam says nothing, Dean goes on. “You didn’t want to scare her away, Sam. It’s a normal impulse. The main thing is, you told her the truth when it mattered. You saved her life.”

Dean takes a deep breath, adjusts himself on his bed roll. “Seems like the least she could’ve done was to thank you.”

“I scared the hell out of her, Dean,” Sam says, rolling over to stare at the ceiling. “Then after the fire, she accused me of planning the whole thing as some kind of elaborate stunt just to prove my death omen was true!”

“Wow,” Dean breathes. “That’s harsh.”

Dean waits. He can feel Sam lying beside him in the dark, breathing hard. Panting.

“You know, I get it,” he says finally, when it’s clear Sam isn’t going to speak again. “I understand how it feels to put somebody in danger just by being with them. I’m pretty sure that’s what drove Cassie away, in the end.”

Not that he blames her. He would’ve left him too.

“If anything had happened to Cassie, I don’t know if I could’ve kept going, y’know? She trusted me. It would’ve felt like total failure.”

Sam huffs out a scornful breath. “Bet you never dreamed about her dying,” he says.

“Well, that’s true,” Dean admits.

“And I bet if you had, it would’ve occurred to you to try to save all the people in the building, not just Cassie.”

“Now, Sam, that’s just way too hypothetical,” Dean insists. “If I dreamed about Cassie dying like you did with Jessica, I probably would’ve been too freaked out to think about it that deeply. She definitely would’ve been the first thing on my mind. Hell, I might not even have trusted my dream in the first place and got her killed anyway.”

Sam’s silent. Thinking.

“I mean, you’re the one who has visions,” Dean says.

“Death omens,” Sam corrects.

“Right.”

Sam huffs out a short breath. “Right before the fire, I had a dream about Mary dying the same way Jessica did.”

Ice-water floods Dean’s veins. “Damn.”

“I figured it was just a dream, but I couldn’t take that chance. I tracked her down, but she was already gone. You know the rest.”

Dean feels Sam suck in a breath, and Dean knows that sound. Sam’s suffering. He’s nearly in tears.

“If I hadn’t been so distracted...” Sam swallows, tries again. “I should’ve saved them, Dean.”

“Sam...”

“There were families living there. Died there,” Sam says, pushing on miserably. “Mother with two little boys, father with a daughter. Two sisters. Some single folks. All immigrants. The stupid building was a fire trap, but if I’d told them what I knew...”

“They might not have believed you,” Dean says.

Sam shakes his head. “I could have convinced them. I’m sure of it.”

Sam shifts beside him. Dean can just make out his profile, the pointed nose and parted lips, Sam’s bangs a tangled mess across his high forehead.

Dean wants to comfort, but he knows he doesn’t dare. Sam’s had a little over a month to process the pain of what happened, the guilt he feels over those deaths, not to mention losing the girl he loved, a girl who might have given him the normal life he craved. The life he deserved.

Dean’s beyond jealous, jealous of the girl who made Sam happy, who might still be making him happy if people hadn’t died.

He’s such a freak.

“It’s not your fault, Sam,” Dean says again, knowing how useless his words are.

“Pretty sure it is,” Sam spits out bitterly. “Pretty sure the thing that came to kill Jessica came because of me. I put all those people in harm’s way. I got them killed!”

Dean recalls the vision he had of Jessica’s death, the one he read in Sam’s mind. He’s got nothing to say to Sam’s bitter words. He’s sure he would’ve felt just as guilty about those people if the Dark Man came for _his_ girl.

“I got them killed, just like I got those people killed the night Mary pulled me out of the fire,” Sam goes on morosely. “Darkness follows me around. I can feel it.”

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean protests. “Darkness does _not_ follow you around. That’s crazy.”

But Dean felt the presence of something evil in Sam’s vision. He knows why Sam feels the way he does. He’s not sure he’s up to helping Sam with that particular problem, but he won’t stop trying.

“Pretty sure it’s not,” Sam says fiercely. “I’m gonna hunt down that motherfucker. Make it pay for what it did.”

A chill slides up Dean’s spine. He reaches for Sam instinctively, grabs his wrist in the dark and holds tight.

Sam’s body is rigid with tension. He starts to pull away, then relaxes and lets out a long sigh.

“Ain’t nothin’ bad gonna happen to you while I’m around,” Dean reminds him. “You face that asshole, you put him down, but I’ll be right there when you do it, y’hear?”

Sam nods, swallows hard. “Yeah.”

Dean withdraws his hand, and Sam turns onto his side, facing him, chasing the contact. Dean feels his hand slide across Dean’s chest as he scoots close, tucking himself against Dean’s body with a sigh that’s almost a sob.

“Okay, okay, hey..” Dean murmurs, sliding one arm under Sam’s head, pulling him close with the other.

“Fuck.” Sam curls into his brother’s body, clinging to him like he’s a lifeline in a storm at sea at night, when the waves are about to dash them against the rocks and certain death.

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. “I got you. I got you, Sammy.”

They don’t make love that night, but Dean wasn’t even thinking about that when he pulled Sam into his arms. He’s just grateful that Sam’s on his wavelength again. Sam seems to be on his feet again.

Dean can’t help but hope that they’ll get there, though. He misses Sam’s body, his mouth, all the ways they’ve shown each other how much they love each other.

Dean doesn’t want to think about how much he’s missed that. He doesn’t want to think about how much he hoped they’d find their way back to each other, in every way. He hates to think about how much he needs that intimacy with his own brother, but that’s how it is.

Sam and Dean were never meant to be normal.

When they pull into Omaha late the next afternoon, it’s deserted, just as Dean had feared it would be. There are no signs of life or even recent occupancy. The Missouri River looks muddy and dense, the ferry dock empty. Dean wonders if the steamboats and ferry boats that used to bring settlers here from Iowa and the south have gone back downriver. There’s no sign of life across the river, either, and the main road through town is dusty and filled with tumbleweeds. Nebraska’s largest city is a ghost town, probably occupied by literal ghosts.

As they ride deeper into town, they find evidence of the final battle that raged here. Huge sections of the town have been burned to the ground, debris litters the streets, and the remains of city residents lie scattered among the ruins, bodies burned beyond all recognition or desiccated by time. There’s not enough left of them to bury, so Sam and Dean leave them, head north into the old Mormon settlement of Florence.

Florence appears largely untouched. The residents must have left town ahead of the monster infestation. No burned buildings here, no debris in the streets, no bodies.

Sam and Dean bed down in an old hotel, across the street from the empty livery stable where they bed the horses. It’s dangerous to sleep in this part of town; even though it looks like everybody who lived here made it out alive, there could be vengeful spirits, even demons still around. But Dean’s reassured by the thick layer of dust over everything. Anybody who survived the monster infestation here has moved on long ago.

“Doesn’t look like they put up much of a fight here,” Sam notes as he salts the doors and windows, sets protection spells in place as he did in the stable after bedding down the horses. “You think everybody just left?”

Dean shrugs as he sits on the bed to pull his boots off. He’s looking forward to sleeping on a real mattress for the first time in nearly a week.

“Bobby said Omaha had been having its share of supernatural troubles for years. Something about being situated near the junction of two rivers. Powerful mojo. The native population had been dealing with it for centuries.”

“Water spirits?” Sam guesses.

“Could be,” Dean agrees. “Something definitely did not want this town to be here. The stories that got back to us in Lawrence were mostly about mass possessions, like what happened in Denver. Killing, looting, burning, all the bad things. I’m just surprised there are any buildings still standing.”

Sam sits down on the other side of the bed to pull his boots off. When he unbuttons his shirt and takes down his suspenders Dean tries not to watch.

“Makes you wonder if the land itself is rising up to reclaim itself,” Sam says. “It just doesn’t want people living on it.”

Dean removes his own suspenders, pushes his trousers down. The bed’s barely wide enough for two men to lie side-by-side, but it beats the hard ground they’ve been sleeping on all week. Dean folds his shirt and trousers to use as a pillow. Sam does the same. Dean blows the candle out and settles back, pulls the blanket up over them both, and stares up at the dark ceiling.

He must have fallen asleep, because suddenly he’s waking up to Sam thrashing and crying out in his sleep.

“Sam!” Dean grabs onto Sam’s thrashing arms, rolls his body on top of Sam to stop his kicking. “Hey, buddy, wake up! Wake up!”

“No! No, Jess! No!”

Sam’s body spasms as he cries out in his sleep for another moment, but then his body stills, relaxes under Dean’s.

“Hey,” Dean says as Sam’s eyes flutter open, glinting in the near-darkness. There must be a moon tonight, Dean thinks. “Okay?”

Sam nods, so Dean rolls off, hopes Sam didn’t notice his erection. Being pressed against Sam’s warm, struggling body pushed all kinds of buttons for Dean. His body remembers Sam’s too well.

Sam’s probably not even thinking about him right now. He’s got visions of Jessica in his head, obviously just had a nightmare about her and all the people who died. He’s grieving. He’s already told Dean how guilty he feels. The last thing he needs right now is Dean’s lustful attention.

When he feels Sam’s fingers reach for his under the blanket, feels Sam squeeze his hand and tangle their fingers together, it’s more than Dean deserves.

Reminders of Sam’s love despite the ways Dean lied to and deceived him fills Dean with shame. He’ll never get over the feeling that he’s betrayed Sam, no matter how much Sam forgives him. He should have told Sam the truth, four years ago. He shouldn’t have let his promise to Mary come between them. Sam had the right to know they were brothers before they had sex that first time.

Sam had always felt like an unwanted orphaned kid. Dean should have assured him that he wasn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

“You know, I get why you didn’t tell me we were brothers,” Sam says the next day out of the blue.

They’ve left Omaha in the dust and are headed uphill, into the Black Hills of the Dakotas. It’s a cold, crisp day, more like fall than early spring, and Dean is struck again by how cock-eyed the seasons are. Nature itself feels out of whack. He’s stopped keeping a lookout for attackers and started wondering if they’ll make it to Sioux Falls before some serious snow starts falling.

Sam’s comment cuts through Dean’s rumination on Nature and the weather like a sliver of ice.

“Yeah, about that.” He shifts nervously in the saddle.

“I mean, I lived with Mary for six years, Dean,” Sam goes on as if Dean hadn’t said anything. “She’s good at keeping secrets. She instills loyalty in her followers by taking them into her confidence, making them feel special. She operates on a need-to-know basis, and everybody wants to be the one she shares the secrets with.”

Dean thinks it’s a little different, on account of Mary being his mother, but he doesn’t say that.

“So I don’t blame you for keeping her secret about us,” Sam concludes. “You were just doing what you thought she wanted.”

“Pretty sure she never wanted us to have sex, Sam,” Dean growls. “I shouldn’t have let that happen, at least not until you knew the truth.”

Sam shakes his head. “She wanted us to be bonded,” he says. “The sex was just a byproduct of that bond. It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t important.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Maybe not to _you_ ,” he sputters. “For me, it’s one of life’s essential needs. Man’s gotta eat, gotta sleep, gotta have sex.” He shakes his head. “I shoulda kept it in my pants until you knew, is all.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “And I’m telling you, it’s not important,” he insists. “The main thing is the soul bond. She made sure we had that from the moment I was born, reinforced by you practically raising me — the environmental factor. Nature-nurture. A life-long link. I just wish I understood the purpose of it all, if there is one.”

Dean frowns, then grimaces. It sure sounds like Sam doesn’t value their sex life. At all.

“So. You’re telling me our own mother wouldn’t mind us having sex with each other.” Dean shakes his head. “I gotta say, Sammy, that sounds like one of those new-fangled East Coast ideas. Out here, we call it incest, and it’s pretty damned socially unacceptable.”

Sam huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “Which is why nobody out here knows we’re brothers,” he reminds Dean. “Nor back east, for that matter. Mary was very clear about that. I’m thinking there’s someone very specific that shouldn’t have that little piece of information.”

“The Dark Man?” The words slip out of Dean’s mouth before he thinks them, surprising both of them.

“What did you say?” Sam frowns.

“The Dark Man,” Dean says again, surprising himself. He honestly doesn’t know where the thought came from, guesses he might have read it in Sam’s mind. “Maybe he’s the one she’s keeping her secret from. Come to think of it, maybe he’s the one behind the werewolf attacks.”

“What makes you say that?” Sam’s skeptical, but interested.

Dean shrugs. “Dunno,” he admits. “It just sounded good. I mean, we know he was after us when we were little. She left to protect Dad and me, after she had a vision that the Dark Man was coming for us. Dad didn’t even know she was pregnant.”

“And then she did the soul bond ritual when I was born,” Sam says, nodding, like he’s following Dean’s non-existent train of thought. Like Dean’s making sense. “To protect both of us.”

“Or maybe to keep the Dark Man from finding out about us,” Dean suggests wildly. “Twin souls. There’s stories about twins. Twins who defeat evil, found nations, all that stuff. Maybe Mom soul bonded us to help her fight the forces of darkness, to make us into her little soldiers in her struggle against the Dark Man.”

Sam blinks, thinks about that for a moment. “Wow,” he says finally, huffing out a breath. He shoots an admiring glance at his brother. “I never thought about it that way, but that sounds right.” He frowns. “Maybe she’s leading us straight into the fight of our lives.”

Dean sucks in a breath. “All the preparation, the way we were raised, your training. Makes sense now, don’t it?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “It sure does.”

It’s not an idea Dean’s particularly fond of. He’s been manipulated by his mother since he was four years old, although he only started figuring that out when he was twelve and read her journal. She always had the jump on him, imparting just enough information to keep him on the path she needed him to follow. She sent Sam to him to raise and protect. The spells in her journal helped Dean keep the family home safe until she could come for her sons, presumably to take them away for training.

Sam was barely twelve when Mary came to take him away again, this time to train him in the magic arts. But Dean had been injured in the fire that destroyed their home, so she left him.

Again.

Dean wonders how different his life would be now if he could have gone with them that day. How hopeful he had been that he could find them, that they would wait for him to join them. When he found the deserted training camp, it took him a while to process. He’d spent six years looking, hoping, fearing they might be dead because why else would they keep themselves hidden from him?

But of course John had died looking for Mary. The only time he found her was when she needed him to find her, when she needed him to take Sam home for safekeeping.

Sometimes Dean hates his mother. He was a good son, always did as she asked, always followed her lead, even when she wasn’t around. But she had chosen Sam to train up in the magic arts. She had given Sam more of her time and knowledge than Dean ever had from her during his childhood. Dean would be furious with jealousy if it was anyone else but Sam. He’s still hurt and angry that she left, both times, and the second time she kept Sam away from him, lied to both of them so that Sam wouldn’t try to leave, so that Sam wouldn’t try to look for Dean until the day he turned eighteen.

Yeah, sometimes he hates her.

But he’d always figured she had her reasons for doing what she did. He’s still fairly sure of that, although whatever her reasons are they can’t ever replace the years he lost with her. He just wishes he’d get some answers. After all these years, he figures it’s all he can hope for.

Of course, maybe she’s dead and any reasons for what she did have died with her.

Dean’s not sure he’d be able to muster the grief he should feel about that. He’s still too angry with her.

That night, camped out in the open again, Sam pulls out Mary’s journal and hands it to Dean.

“Figured you might want to read it,” he says. “She only mentions you a couple of times, but it’s got a few notes on the Dark Man. Some of it’s just theory and conjecture, but it’s something.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

As Dean takes the notebook, his fingers brush Sam’s, sending sparks up his spine. His dick hardens and his cheeks flush hot. 

Sam gives him a tight-lipped smile and lowers his eyes, telling Dean that he senses Dean’s reaction but making it clear that he’s not in the mood.

Dean flushes hotter. He can’t help it if Sam makes him hope for something he can’t have. Sam’s the most desirable person in Dean’s life. Has been for as long as he can remember. He can’t just turn that off.

Dean holds the journal between his hands, rubs his thumb along the well-worn leather. He thinks back to the day Pastor Jim gave him the journal his mother had kept before she left, the one she told Jim to keep for her until Dean’s twelfth birthday.

Did she ever mean for him to follow in her footsteps? If so, when did she change her mind and choose Sam instead?

Sam’s always been gifted, whereas Dean’s only talented. Mary must have seen the distinction, must have recognized Sam’s giftedness when she re-entered their lives all those years ago. She might have meant to take Dean with her until that moment, but then it became clear to her that Sam was the One.

Or maybe it only became clear once she had Sam to herself. Maybe she had intended to bring Dean into their circle earlier, as she’d promised, but once she recognized Sam’s specialness, she changed course.

Dean takes a shaky breath, glances at Sam as he opens the journal.

Sam’s already settled down on the other side of the fire, lying on his side with his back to Dean and the fire as Dean takes first watch. Sam’s still young, still a strong, sinewy sapling, but Dean can see the power in his back. Dean can see the promise of mature muscle and bone in the way Sam’s shirt strains over his shoulders.

Sam’s on his way to becoming as large as he is powerful.

//**//**//

“You had another nightmare last night,” Dean tells Sam the next day.

The path has become steeper, winding back and forth in a switchback up the side of the hill. The horses pick their way delicately among the rocks and weeds, and Dean’s grateful for Remus’ sure footing.

“Yeah.” Sam nods. Since it was only an hour after Sam fell asleep, Dean had made the decision not to wake his brother, and eventually Sam had fallen back asleep.

Dean clears his throat. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” Sam says.

“Sounds like the guilt is eating you up pretty good,” Dean says. “Might help to talk it out some. Maybe just talk about _her,_ you know?”

“There’s not much to tell, Dean,” Sam insists. “She was beautiful, she loved me, and I lost her.”

“Were you planning to marry her?”

Sam gives an exasperated breath. “What?”

“You heard me,” Dean says, although he knows damn well he shouldn’t. He doesn’t have the right.

Sam twists in the saddle, gives Dean a look that Dean’s seen before but obviously not often enough.

“Are you jealous?” Sam asks, straight to the heart of the matter, as ever.

“What? No!” Dean makes a shocked face that probably totally gives him away. “I’m happy for you! If you were planning to marry Jessica, settle down, start a life together, that’s good! That’s great!”

“Why don’t I believe you?” Sam shakes his head.

“I can’t imagine.” Dean shrugs. “So? Were you? Planning to marry her, I mean?”

“Dean, you are way too easy to read.” Sam smirks. “I don’t even need telepathy.”

“Just answer the damn question, Sam!”

“I hadn’t decided yet,” Sam says. “Not that it’s any of your damn business.”

Which is the right answer, of course. Dean doesn’t have the right to pry. And of course he’s jealous as hell.

“You still could, you know,” Dean says.

“Could what?”

“Marry her, settle down, have kids.” Dean’s a masochist and he knows it. Sam probably knows it, too.

Sam scoffs. “Pretty sure _that_ ship has sailed.”

“I’ll bet you could get her to take you back,” Dean says, pressing the point in spite of himself. “ _I_ would, after I got over being mad at you for lying to me in the first place.”

Sam screws up his face in disbelief. “Dean, you are so predictable.”

“What? No, I’m not! I’m dangerous. Fascinating. Devilishly handsome. Sometimes terrifying. Totally wrong for you.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, Dean wishes he could take them back. He can’t help the hot flush that rises to his cheeks. “You should try to make her take you back, is all I’m saying,” he finishes lamely. “She’s good for you.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but the look he shoots Dean is fond.

“Pretty sure I’m not so good for _her_ , though,” Sam says, shaking his head. “She did the right thing, leaving me. Anyway, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t take me back even if I begged her to, and I don’t blame her.”

Dean’s an idiot. He was trying to cheer Sam up and all he did was make it worse.

“Aw hell, Sammy...”

Sam stops dead on the trail, staring away from him, and for a moment, Dean’s confused.

Then he sees it, too. A man on a horse, watching them from the top of the ridge ahead of them. He’s wearing a long duster but no hat, and for some reason he seems familiar.

“It’s Castiel,” Sam says, voice soft, awed. “The angel.”

“Great timing,” Dean mutters.

“What do we do?”

Dean shrugs. “See what he wants.”

It’s been four years since they found the angel camped out in a cabin in the Colorado Rockies, possessing the body of a homesteader whose family had run for the hills upon his arrival.

Castiel had told the Winchesters that he’d been waiting for them. Which was creepy enough before he also mentioned that they were part of a prophecy.

It takes another twenty minutes for the Winchesters to climb the ridge. Castiel waits, still as a statue atop his horse, which stamps impatiently, tossing his head and snorting as the boys approach.

“Hello, Dean,” the angel says in greeting as they draw near. The Winchesters stop side by side, facing the man who isn’t a man. 

Dean tamps down a creeping sense of foreboding. He’s faced a lot of monsters, killed more than he can count, but meeting Castiel was the first time he’d come face to face with something that completely defied his understanding of the world. He’d accepted the existence of the supernatural since he was a very young child, understood that most monsters were at least partly or formerly human or animal. In that way, the supernatural world was built logically on the natural one.

There’s nothing natural about Castiel. He seems completely alien, and except for the fact that he’s possessing a human man, there’s nothing for Dean to relate to. It’s incredibly disorienting.

It occurs to him that he has no idea how to kill an angel, if that became necessary.

It also occurs to him that Castiel may be lying about what he is. Demons can possess people, and although Dean’s never met one that he knows of, he’s heard that demons can fit in by pretending to be the humans they’re possessing.

Castiel isn’t trying to fit in, which in and of itself is reason enough to fear him. The angel is either colossally stupid or too powerful to be concerned about any danger posed by two very experienced hunters (one of whom is also a powerful Master Mage).

“Sam.” The angel turns its gaze on Sam, lifts its chin and narrows its eyes. “You have changed.”

“It’s called growing up, dickweed,” Dean growls, protective hackles raised. “I see you’re still possessing poor Jimmy whats-his-name.”

“Jimmy Novak,” Castiel responds. “Yes.”

“What are you doing here?” Sam asks.

The angel turns its gaze on Sam, then looks back at Dean. It doesn’t blink. “I have news for you both.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances. “Let me guess,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “You know where our mother is.”

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “I can take you to her.”

“Okay,” Dean says, shaking his head. “And what’s in it for you?”

“I beg your pardon?” The angel frowns.

“Well, in my experience, supernatural entities don’t just appear out of nowhere to do me a good turn,” Dean explains. Castiel blinks. It’s like talking to a small child. “So what’s the catch?”

“Catch?” Castiel repeats, confused.

“Yeah, you know, what do you want in payment for helping us find Mom? ‘Cuz, like I said, in my experience, supernatural entities don’t just do things for us out of the goodness of their hearts, or whatever you’ve got that passes for a heart.”

Dean doesn’t tell Castiel that the only supernatural entities he’s ever encountered were too busy trying to rip his throat out to bargain with him. The angel doesn’t need to know it’s the first time that Dean’s ever encountered a supernatural creature that has more than a basic, brutal intelligence. Even the ones that used to be human, like werewolves, became bloodthirsty animals in their true forms. Not exactly good at conversation.

“Ah, I see,” Castiel nods. “The prophecy says that the brothers will bring an angel with them to help their mother defeat the Dark One. Since I have been the only angel to visit Earth for nearly two millennia, I assume I am the angel in question.”

Sam and Dean exchange flabbergasted glances.

“How old are you?” Sam asks.

Castiel blinks, then narrows his eyes. “My age is unknown. All angels were created at the beginning of time. We are forever and unchanging.”

“But you can die,” Dean suggests. If this clown actually falls for Dean’s inquiry, they might gain some valuable information. “You can be killed.”

Castiel hesitates before answering, and for a moment Dean thinks he won’t.

Then Castiel says, “There have been battles between battalions of angels from time to time. Some angels have fallen in battle. It has been a long time since the last battle, however. Long before the current era.”

“Huh.” Dean shoots his impressed but skeptical look at Sam, who gives him a similar look in exchange. “And this prophecy. You heard it where, exactly?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow again and for the first time he manages to look dangerous.

“The prophecy is not so old. Only a hundred years or so. The prophecy says that there would come a time when monsters had conquered the West, led by the Dark One who gained strength through his children on Earth. The brothers and their mother will defeat the Dark One with help from an angel. So it is written, and so it shall come to pass.”

“Huh.” Dean glances at Sam, frowns when Sam turns away. Sam’s hiding something, but now’s not the time. “And you’re sure the brothers in the prophecy are us.”

Castiel lifts his eyes to Sam, gazes steadily at him for a moment before he turns his gaze to Dean.

“One of the brothers has been touched by the Dark One,” he says, then looks back at Sam. “You have darkness in you, Sam Winchester.”

Sam flushes, looks down, away from Dean.

Dean’s instantly defensive. “What? No, he doesn’t. What the hell?”

“Sam met the Dark One when he was a child,” Castiel says, far too matter-of-fact for Dean’s taste. “The Dark One killed Sam’s foster mother when he was four years old. He would have killed Sam’s betrothed, had your brother not intervened.”

Dean stares. “Oh hell, no,” he says. “No way that thing tried to kill Jessica.”

But he knows it’s true. He feels it. He saw it in his vision. Sam’s vision. Which explains why he thought Jessica was killed by someone familiar. Dean was sensing Sam’s recognition of the evil one. Sam had seen him before.

“You are infected, too, Dean,” Castiel says, turning his blue-eyed gaze on Dean. “Not directly, but indirectly through your bloodline. Through your mother. She was infected when her parents died, just as Sam was.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to be confused. “What? Infected how? What are you talking about?”

Castiel seems almost contrite when he looks at Dean.

“Your mother’s family was attacked when she was a small child,” he says. “The Dark One killed her parents and infected her with demon blood. She was endowed with unique psychic powers as a result, powers which allowed her to read minds, to predict the future, to stay connected with the Dark One as she grew. Her union with John Winchester produced two children whose blood included the infected blood from the Dark One.”

He turns to Sam. “When Sam was four, the Dark One attacked his foster-family, just as it had done with his mother. The Dark One gave Sam his blood, fed it to him directly as he did to Mary.”

Dean doesn’t have to look at Sam to read the distress in his beautiful face. None of this is news to him.

“But why?” Dean demands. “Why would he do that?”

“The Dark One’s purpose is not known to me,” Castiel replies. “It is not part of the prophecy. All I know is that you and your brother are the only ones who can stop him.”

“Well, ain’t that just a big ol’ shiny Christmas present wrapped in a steaming pile o’ horse manure.” Dean glares at the angel, who seems completely unperturbed. It’s infuriating.

“Dean.”

Sam’s soft voice startles Dean, yanks him out of his state of helpless anger and horrified confusion. Sam’s face is a mask of misery thinly veiled as steely resolve.

“I don’t know about that last part, but he’s right about the rest of it. I — I remember that night, when I was four. I didn’t for a long time, or maybe I did but I repressed it? But lately I’ve been having dreams.”

Dean stares. “ _More_ dreams?” he demands. “Besides the death omen ones?”

Sam nods. His mouth tightens into a hard line. “Yeah. I remember the night of the fire, all those years ago. The Man was there. I watched him — I watched him kill my mother. At least I _thought_ she was my mother, and then he grabbed me and — “

“And you were gonna tell me this when?” Dean’s flabbergasted. He feels betrayed. Finding out Sam was withholding vital information upsets the hell out of him.

“Didn’t think it mattered,” Sam mumbles, but Dean can see he’s just making excuses.

“Of _course_ it mattered, Sam! You were visited by the same demonic entity that tried to steal Mom away from _her_ family all those years ago, and you didn’t think it _mattered?_ ” Then it hits him. “Wait. Why didn’t it try to take you? If it grabbed you and — whatever — “

“Infected me,” Sam spits out, as if he can feel the taste of the demon’s blood in his mouth right now. “I don’t know. I don’t know why he didn’t take Mom, either. All I know is, what happened to us was the same.”

“And then this thing recently with Jessica..? How does _that_ fit the pattern? Huh?”

Sam shakes his head, looks away. “It doesn’t. I don’t know.”

“Sam? What aren’t you telling me?”

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, and Dean waits, knowing he’s about to hear something terrible.

“She’s pregnant, Dean,” he says finally. “She didn’t know I knew, but I knew. I _know_.”

“Wow. Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“I think — I think the Dark Man planned to kill her because it didn’t want me to settle down,” Sam says. “It didn’t want me to marry Jess and start a family because — because it has plans for me.”

This was the secret Sam’s been keeping. This is why he seemed so secretive when he first told Dean about what his vision. Dean understands now. Sam thought he was destined for evil.

Dean’s not having that, no sir.

“Sam, you listen to me,” Dean says, keeping his voice low and intent, just between them, although he’s pretty sure the angel can overhear. “What that bastard did to you was wrong. It was evil. But that doesn’t make _you_ evil, you hear me? And we are gonna hunt that bastard down and finish him. You hear me? We’re gonna find the Dark Man and kill him!”

Some of the tension goes out of Sam’s shoulders, and Dean takes that as a win. He glances at Castiel, who squints at them like he’s trying to read their minds.

“So, the Dark Man,” Dean says. “What can you tell us about him? Is he some kind of demon? Or another angel?”

“He is _not_ an angel,” Castiel says, clearly offended at the notion. “My best guess is he’s some kind of high-level demon.”

“And this prophecy you keep talking about, the one where we’re supposed to defeat him. Does it say how?”

“It does not,” Castiel concedes. “However, I believe I know someone who may be able to help us with that.”

“Us?” Dean sucks in a breath. “Who said anything about ‘us,’ choirboy? Just gives us directions and we’ll find him. And our Mom.”

“I cannot allow you to go alone,” Castiel says. “The prophecy says — “

“We’re supposed to have an angel on our shoulder, yeah, I get it,” Dean grumbles. An idea occurs to him that makes him keenly uncomfortable. “Say, you haven’t been watching us all this time, have you? Watching over us, like a guardian angel?”

Castiel’s eyes shift away for a moment, then back to squint intently at Dean. “Not all the time.”

“Oh man, I knew it!” Dean exclaims, shaking his head. “Heading back to Lawrence all those years ago, when we never ran into any of the evil things that were taking out whole cities. That was you, wasn’t it? Keeping us safe.”

“I might have checked in on you during that time,” Castiel acknowledges. “But you seem to have your own psychic sensory awareness.”

“Our own what? What’s he talking about, Sam?”

Sam frowns. “I think he means you make your own luck, Dean,” Sam says. “Which makes sense, given how many times you’ve nearly died. I tend to agree with him.”

“You think I’ve been lucky?” Dean stares. “Losing Mom, losing Dad, losing the farm. You call that luck?”

Sam shrugs. “Could be worse,” he notes. “You could’ve died back there on the farm when Adam tried to kill you. Or that time up in the Rockies with the werewolves. Or later when we were battling the monsters in Lawrence. I never saw a man so close to death, all three times.”

Dean blinks, thinking back. Then it dawns on him. “You were there, Sam, each of those times. _You_ saved me, little brother. If I’ve got good luck, its name is Sam Winchester.”

Sam smiles, dimples showing, and Dean’s chest grows warm. He can feel a grin breaking his face open as he gazes at Sam’s profile, at the way his hair falls forward over his forehead as he ducks his head.

When he finally drags his eyes away, he finds Castiel watching them.

Dean frowns. “All right, we’re in,” he says gruffly. “Now let’s get going before these poor horses starve to death or get hoof rot from standing around on the damp grass for so damn long.”

“So where’d you get the horse?”

They’re on the plateau above the Missouri River, riding north. Dean figures they’ve come about 100 miles since their night in Omaha. Sioux Falls is still another day or two ahead of them.

“I borrowed it from a man at a roadhouse near Sioux City,” Castiel explains. “He had no more need for it.”

“You mean, he’s dead,” Dean clarifies.

Castiel shoots him a confused frown. “No, I mean he no longer needed the horse. It belonged to his son.”

“So his son’s dead.”

“Yes.” Castiel nods.

“Did you kill him?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “I believe he died of natural causes. His father didn’t elaborate. He seemed more interested in becoming extremely intoxicated.”

Dean exchanges glances with Sam, who shrugs.

“Okay, back to the prophecy,” Dean says, turning the conversation to something that might actually be important. “You said you knew someone who might be able to help us with that.”

Castiel nods. “His name is Chuck Shurley,” he says. “He is a Prophet of the Lord. He lives in Sioux Falls.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Dean comments.

“What’s a Prophet of the Lord?” Sam asks.

“I’m guessing it’s what it sounds like,” Dean answers when the angel stares at Sam without answering for a moment too long. “But what we really want to know is, where’s the Lord in all this? You say you’re an angel of the Lord and this fella Chuck is a prophet. So where’s the Lord? _Is_ there a Lord?”

“There is a Lord,” Castiel assures him. “Unfortunately, he hasn’t visited this Earth in some time.”

“Oh, there’s another Earth he likes better?” Dean rolls his eyes.

Castiel frowns. “I do not believe so,” he says, taking Dean’s question far more literally than Dean intended. “However, the ways of the Lord are not always clear to Man. Or angels, for that matter.”

“Right,” Dean nods. “God works in mysterious ways. Ours is not to wonder why, ours is to do whatever the hell the higher authority tells us to do. Except Sam and me don’t follow rules too well, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Castiel’s confusion grows. “Yet you are an officer of the law,” he says. “Sam is a Master Mage. You have both taken oaths to uphold the commandments of your professions.”

“Have we?” Dean blinks. “Out here, over a thousand miles from civilization, we get to pretty much make up the rules as we go.”

“But as sheriff you have sworn an oath to uphold the law,” Castiel repeats. “And as a Master of the Magic Arts Sam has sworn his oath never to practice black magic. Only to use magic for good. Surely that means something.”

“It does,” Sam assures him. “It means a lot.”

“But it don’t mean we can’t bend a few rules if the need arises,” Dean says. “I wouldn’t hesitate to end you, for example, if I thought you were a threat.”

“Perhaps I should take that as a compliment,” Castiel suggests.

“Take it however you want,” Dean says. “Just don’t forget it. I’m not bound by any rules out here. If I see something that needs doing, including killing, I’ll do it. Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me, not even the badge I swore to serve.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Castiel notes solemnly.

//**//**//

They find a hollowed hill near the river to bed down that night, a dugout that offers some shelter from the wind and cold. The air smells like snow. While Dean waters and brushes down the horses, Sam skins and cooks the jackrabbits he caught, then wards their campsite so they can sleep.

“I don’t sleep,” Castiel explains when Sam offers to share their bedrolls.

“Oh.” Sam holds out a tin plate featuring cooked rabbit and wild onion. Castiel shakes his head.

“I don’t eat, either.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean shrugs as he digs in. As usual, Sam’s campfire cooking skills are superb.

Of course, everything tastes good after a day on the trail. When he’s done eating, Dean stretches out his bow legs toward the fire, leans back against a log and pats his belly, then looks up at the stars.

If it wasn’t so cold, and if they weren’t on their way to fight a demon who’s been haunting their family for nearly fifty years, he’d say the night was nearly perfect.

“I’ll take first watch,” Sam offers. He’s already washed the dishes in the river.

Dean studies his brother’s sharp profile in the firelight, pats the space next to him.

“Let Castiel keep watch,” he says, nodding his chin up at the angel, who stands awkwardly just outside the campfire’s light, hands hanging loose at his sides. “Get on over here and look at these stars with me.”

Sam hesitates, shoots a glance at Castiel, then lifts his eyebrows at Dean. “You trust him?”

“About as far as I can throw him,” Dean admits. “But what’s he gonna do? Kill us in our sleep? Let us get torn apart by a roving band of werewolves? Sort of defeats his purpose, don’t it?”

“We don’t really know his purpose,” Sam reminds him. “We only know what he’s told us.”

“Yeah, well, I believe him,” Dean says with a shrug. “He seems too clueless to make all that shit up. Or maybe just crazy.” Dean spins his index finger around his temple. “Besides. We could use all the help we can get, if we wanna find Mom and do battle with the thing that killed her family, your foster mom, and those poor people in Boston.”

Sam huffs out a half-laugh as he sits down next to Dean on the bedroll. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

They sit silently for a few minutes, staring up at the stars and sharing Dean’s flask. Dean warms to Sam’s body heat and the burn of the alcohol. His tongue feels heavy. It’s good.

“I’m really sorry about Jessica, Sammy.”

Sam shakes his head. “It wouldn’t have worked out, even if she hadn’t left. Anyway, she’s safer now. The baby’s safer.” Sam takes a quick sip from the flask, winces at the burn.

Dean reaches out, takes the flast from Sam’s fingers. Their hands touch, sending sparks up Dean’s arm. His face and chest flush hot.

“It could’ve been a good thing,” Dean says, warm and loose. “If you’d married her and settled down, I would’ve been happy for you.”

Sam makes a face. “No, you wouldn’t,” he snaps. “You would’ve been just as miserable as me.”

Dean huffs out a breath. “Yeah, maybe. But I want you to be happy, Sam. I want you to have a normal life.”

“There’s no normal for me,” Sam says. There’s bitterness in his tone. Resignation, too. “Harvard, Boston, living in a brownstone with electricity and indoor plumbing, wearing suits and driving a horseless carriage — That’s not me. That’s not the life I was meant to live. It would’ve been a mistake to stay.”

“Well anyway, I’m glad you’re here,” Dean says. “Even if it’s only because you lost your family.”

“That’s not the only reason, Dean, and you know it.” Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. “I couldn’t stay away, not forever. It’s probably better this way. Not that I’m glad Jessica left me, but I couldn’t have stayed with her forever. It just ain’t in me.”

Dean nods. “I figure we’re both happier on the road,” he says.

Sam slides down so he’s lying next to Dean, so their bodies are lined up side by side, barely touching.

“I’m happier with _you_ ,” Sam says softly. “It just took me a minute to remember that.”

Which is Dean’s cue to kiss the person he loves most in the world, of course. To finally feel Sam’s soft lips on his after so long he’s almost forgotten how it feels.

The stars are reflected in Sam’s eyes, which seem unusually dark in the firelight. Dean turns toward Sam, slides his hand along the younger man’s cheek, into his hair.

Something moves in his peripheral vision. It’s the angel, shifting awkwardly as he watches them.

“Hey, uh, Castiel.” Dean glares at the angel. “Mind turning around?”

The angel frowns. “Why?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s called privacy,” he explains, tamping down his impatience.

The angel blinks, clearly not understanding, but does as Dean asks, moving awkwardly in a perfect half-circle until his back is facing the Winchesters.

When Dean turns his attention to his brother again, Sam’s grinning up at him, leaning into Dean’s hand, and for a moment Dean just gazes at him, enraptured.

“It’s good to see you smile, Sammy,” he says quietly.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Sam says, so Dean does.

They’re both tipsy, and with the angel standing just a few feet away neither brother feels like doing more than kissing, but it’s a start. Sam’s lips are warm and soft, just as Dean remembers, and kissing him is as familiar as coming home. Their bodies fit together with only minor variations; Sam’s grown again, put on muscle. Dean’s not a small man, but in Sam’s arms he feels younger, lighter. He gets flashbacks to being held in his father’s arms, and it’s soothing. Comforting.

The fire in his belly and the way his dick hardens is all about Sam, though. Nothing and nobody makes him feel the way Sam does.

And the way Sam holds him, reverent but passionate, tells him Sam feels the same way about Dean.

For tonight, it’s just them. The rest of the world can burn or fall away now that Sam and Dean are together again, in every way.


	3. Chapter 3

The Sheriff, the Gunslinger, and the Angel ride into Sioux Falls late on Wednesday afternoon, May 17, 1905. They’re greeted at the town gates by two local deputies, a husband and wife team, Isaac and Tamara Washington. As they ride down the main street, they’re joined by Martin Creaser and a couple of other familiar faces.

“Good to see you boys,” Caleb Blacker greets them warmly.

Caleb confirms that his hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska fell the same year Denver and Kansas City did. Martin hasn’t even tried to get back to Texas.

“Smoke from the fires down south lingered for days,” he reminds the Winchesters. “Blacked out the sun and kept the temperature so low at night it felt like late fall instead of summer.”

“So what’s the news?” Tamara asks. “How is it out there?”

“Omaha’s a ghost town,” Dean reports. “But Lawrence is holding. We haven’t had an attack in over three years.”

“And who’s this now?” Caleb tilts his head at Castiel.

“His name’s Castiel,” Dean says. “Says he’s an Angel of the Lord.”

“Well, what do you know.” Caleb gives a low whistle. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

Their escort gives them directions to Bobby’s place, then heads back to their patrol duty. 

As the Winchesters and Castiel ride up to the sheriff’s office, Bobby Singer strides out to greet them. Sam and Dean slide off their mounts to hug the old man, gruffly and with much macho back-slapping, of course. There’s not a dry eye between the three of them, but nobody mentions that.

Bobby asks the brothers how they’ve been doing since he last saw them, four years ago now. They accept his invitation to stay at his place, which is nothing more than an apartment behind the county jail, but it’s home.

“And who’s this?” Bobby turns his suspicious gaze on Castiel.

“He’s an Angel of the Lord, name of Castiel,” Dean explains. “Says he can help us find Mom.”

“Oh he does, does he?” Bobby looks the angel up and down critically. “Doesn’t look much like I imagined an angel would look. Where’s your...?” He draws a circle in the air above his head.

“Angels don’t have haloes,” Castiel explains. “That’s just a myth.”

“Huh,” Bobby frowns. “And wings. You got those? Doesn’t look like those are real, either.”

“Oh, he’s got wings,” Dean assures his old friend. “We’ve seen ‘em. Or heard ‘em, at least.”

“Well, I guess if he’s a friend of yours, he’s welcome,” Bobby says reluctantly.

Dean puts a hand up. “Not exactly a friend, Bobby,” he says. “More of a traveling companion. He says there’s a prophecy about him coming with us on our search for Mom, among other things. Says there’s a guy named Chuck Shurley who lives here, might have some intel for us.”

“Chuck?” Bobby frowns. “You mean the town drunk?”

Sam and Dean exchange glances and shrug.

“He’s down at the saloon, same as always,” Bobby says. “Lives there, in a little room upstairs. Earns his keep by playing the piano and guitar. Sings like an angel, no offense to present company intended.”

“None taken,” Castiel assures him.

“Let me get you boys settled in, then we can go down to the saloon to meet him, if you like. Jody Mills runs the place like a ship’s captain when she’s not on patrol with the rest of us, plus she’s a helluva cook. If we’re lucky, maybe we can get her to rustle something up for us.”

“Sounds good,” Dean nods, exchanging soulful looks with his brother.

Sam clears his throat. “This Chuck fellow. Castiel says he’s a Prophet of the Lord.”

Bobby blinks. “Well, I don’t know about that, but when he sings, you might think you’re in the room with something holy. He’s that good.”

“Huh.” Sam nods. “We look forward to meeting him.”

An hour later, three men and an angel enter Jody’s Saloon and Chow House through the swinging doors.

“Evening, fellas,” Jody greets them with a wide smile. “What’ll it be?”

“Whisky all round, Jody,” Bobby says. “And some of that outstanding prairie dog stew you make so well, along with some cornbread, if you’ve got any fresh made.”

“I have, Bobby,” Jody nods. “You wanna introduce me to your friends?”

Bobby had given them some of Jody’s backstory on the walk over from the sheriff’s office. Her’s is as tragic and heroic as most stories these days. She’d lost her son to disease, her husband to monsters in the battle for the town four years back. After she buried him she joined the volunteer militia to protect the town. Saloon manager’s her day job.

“These boys are looking for Chuck,” Bobby tells her. “Is he around?”

Jody gestured across the room, behind the piano, where a small bearded man sits alone at one of the tables, writing as he nurses a glass of whiskey.

“Right where he always is,” Jody says, rolling her eyes.

“He looks pretty sober tonight,” Bobby comments skeptically.

“It’s early,” Jody notes. “You can probably get a coherent word out of him, if you want. Go ahead on over. I’ll bring you your stew and bread in a few minutes.”

As Bobby leads the way over to Chuck’s writing and drinking table, the man looks up expectantly, apprehension clouding his features.

“It’s all right, Chuck,” Bobby assures him. “These men just need to speak with you.”

Dean gestures to Castiel. “You brought us here,” he tells the angel. “You talk to the guy.”

Castiel nods. “Chuck Shurley? My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord. This is Sam and Dean Winchester.”

“Campbell,” Sam corrects. “I’m Sam Campbell.”

Chuck blinks, looking from one to the other of the men, then back at Bobby. He huffs out a laugh. “No, you’re not.”

“Uh, yeah, actually, we are,” Sam insists. “I’m Sam, this is my brother Dean. Castiel says you can tell us where our mom is.”

Dean shoots a sharp look at his brother, but doesn’t correct him. If Sam wants to reveal the true nature of their relationship to this man, he’ll go along with that decision. He trusts that Sam knows what he’s doing.

He glances at Bobby to see if it’s news to the old man, but if it is, Bobby doesn’t give any sign of that, and Dean isn’t too surprised. He suspects that Bobby probably guessed the truth long ago.

“No,” Chuck repeats, shaking his head. “You can’t be them. I made them up.” He gestures down at the pages on the table, each one covered with neat, handwritten script. “Dean Winchester is Sheriff of Lawrence, Kansas. His brother Sam is a Master Mage who trained at Harvard. And Castiel...” He looks up at the angel. “You can’t be him.”

Sam and Dean glance at Bobby, who shrugs.

“ _I_ didn’t tell him,” he insists. “How he knows that stuff ain’t because o’ me. Of course, this is a saloon. Travelers come through on a fairly regular basis. Any one of them might have talked about you two. Him, on the other hand...” He gestures at Castiel.

Sam picks up one of the papers, reads the words out loud: “The Sheriff, the Gunslinger, and the Angel ride into Sioux Falls late on Wednesday afternoon, May 17, 1905. They’re greeted at the town gates by two local deputies, a husband and wife team, Isaac and Tamara Washington. As they ride down the main street, they’re joined by Martin Creaser and a couple of other familiar faces.” He looks up at Dean. “This just happened.” He looks down at Chuck. “This is us.”

Chuck jumps up and snatches the page out of Sam’s hand.

“No, no, no,” he says. “This is my novel. This is the fictional work I’m writing that’s gonna get me published so I can get out of this hell-hole town...”

“Hey!” Bobby protests.

“I’m a writer!” Chuck insists. “I write! Maybe not very well, but I’m getting better. But these are fictional characters, guys. Not real people!”

“How does he do this?” Dean turns to Castiel.

“He is a Prophet of the Lord,” Castiel says.

“What?” Chuck stares. “No! I’m a writer! I write!”

Sam picks up another page, frowns as he reads. “This happened yesterday.”

Dean flushes hot. “What? Let me look at that...”

“Give me that!” Chuck howls, trying to grab the page out of Dean’s hand as Dean reads quickly, relieved when he finds no mention of what he and Sam were doing last night by the campfire. “That’s mine! Give it back!”

“Hold on there, son,” Bobby warns, stepping in between Chuck and Dean as Sam picks up another page. “These folks need some answers.”

“Answers?” Chuck stares at them, wild-eyed. “What answers? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your process,” Sam says. “Tell us about your process.”

“Yeah,” Dean chimes in. “How do you do this? Are you psychic? Is that it?”

“What? No!” Chuck insists. “These are just stories! I make them up!”

“How do you get your ideas, Chuck?” Sam says, patient to a fault, in Dean’s opinion. He’d rather grab the little twerp and shake the truth out of him.

“Answer the question, son,” Bobby growls when Chuck shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting from Sam’s face to the pages he’s holding.

“My ideas?” Chuck repeats, reaching for his whisky glass, taking a long swallow. “I don’t know. Sometimes they come to me while I’m sleeping. Like dreams, you know? Other times I’m just sitting here writing and they flow out. Sometimes the words come easier than others, depending on whether I’m drinking or not.”

“But how do you decide what to write down?” Sam asks. “You mention Jessica here, but there doesn’t seem to be anything about my life in Boston...”

“It’s a family saga,” Chuck says. “The novel’s about the Winchester family. I don’t bother with scenes where they’re apart. Those scenes don’t move the story forward. They’re just backstories. Extraneous.”

“Jessica’s not extraneous, you asshole!” Sam explodes, and this time it’s Dean who gets between Chuck and his brother.

“Okay, whoa, whoa, Sam, that’s enough.” Dean puts his hand on Sam’s chest, warm and firm, grounding him.

Sam blinks, backs down, tossing the pages on the table. “This is stupid,” he grumbles. “How is he supposed to help us? All he sees is things that have already happened.”

“Is that true?” Dean turns to Chuck. “You can’t see the future? Just the past? Or just whatever’s happening while it happens?”

“No!” Chuck protests. “Of course I have some idea where the story’s going. What kind of writer would I be if I didn’t?”

“He is a Prophet...” Castiel begins, but Dean cuts him off.

“Of the Lord, yeah. So you keep saying.” He glares at Chuck. “So what about Mom? Can you tell us where Mary Winchester is? How do we find her?”

“I haven’t written about that yet,” Chuck says. “The scene where she reunites with her sons is the climax of the story. It’s all up here.” He points to his head.

“So you’ve seen it,” Dean clarifies. “You know where she is.”

“I have an idea,” Chuck says. “But I don’t know if it’s how she wants it to go until I start writing it.”

“What do you mean, ‘how she wants it to go’?” Sam asks. “Does she communicate with you? Telepathically?”

“I _know_ her,” Chuck answers. “At least as much as she lets herself be known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean demands.

“Mary’s a complicated character. She likes to hide and she’s very good at it. Nobody finds her until she’s good and ready. She hides her true self deep down inside. Nobody ever gets to know the real Mary Campbell-Winchester. She’s a complete enigma.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Just tell us where she is!”

“I can’t tell you what’s in my head!” Chuck protests. “I might jinx it!”

“Either you tell us where she is, or Sam here will make sure you never write again!”

Chuck’s eyes go wide.

“Dean!” Sam huffs out a breath. “I can’t hurt him. He’s human!”

“You can damn well put a spell on his hands so he can’t use them again,” Dean snaps.

“Dean, I can’t use magic that way,” Sam says, shaking his head. “It’s against my oath.”

“Then cast a spell that will force him to tell us what he knows!”

“I can’t do that, either...”

“Allow me.”

Before Chuck can react, Castiel takes a step forward and lays his hand on the man’s forehead.

Chuck freezes, head tipped back, eyes wide. The empty glass he was holding slides out of his hand and hits the floor with a thunk, rolling until it hits the table leg and stops.

Castiel’s eyes slide closed but otherwise he stands perfectly still while the others watch, mesmerized.

“What’s going on over here?”

Jody approaches, carrying a tray with four bowls of steaming chili and a loaf of cornbread that smells like a little piece of Heaven. She sets the tray down carefully on the table just as Castiel removes his hand from Chuck’s forehead and opens his eyes, stepping back stiffly.

“What the hell was _that?_ ” Chuck squawks, clearly spooked. He stumbles backwards and might have tripped over his chair if Bobby and Jody hadn’t reached out to catch him, lowering him into it instead.

“I have the information,” Castiel announces, turning to Dean. “We should go.”

“Wait! Just hold on there, cowboy,” Dean says, putting his hands up, palms out. “We just got here. And I know you don’t eat or sleep, but we’re human. We’re _hungry._ ”

“He doesn’t eat?” Jody frowns.

“That’s okay, I’ll eat his share,” Chuck says quickly, reaching for the bowl. His fingers tremble as they pick up the spoon.

“Did you just snag that poor man’s thoughts right out of his head?” Dean demands, glaring at Castiel.

“We have the information,” Castiel says. “He was unwilling to give it to us.”

“So you just took it,” Dean notes. “And you don’t see a problem with that?”

Castiel frowns. “I assure you, he is unhurt. I merely entered his mind long enough to find the whereabouts of your mother.”

“Without his permission,” Dean says. “Just like you took over that poor bastard you’re possessing.”

“Jimmy said yes,” Castiel insists. “He agreed to this.”

Dean shakes his head. “There’s no way the guy could’ve known what he was really agreeing to,” he says. “Losing his wife and child, his home, his life — pretty sure he didn’t sign up for that!”

“Dean. Let it go.” Sam gestures at the table, where Jody has brought whisky and water and now stands back, watching them. “What do you say we eat, sleep, and figure out where we’re going tomorrow.”

Dean turns to Castiel, glaring for another moment before he answers.

“You know where we’re going,” he says to Castiel, and the angel nods.

“I do,” he says. “We could leave tonight.”

Dean glances at Sam, Bobby, Jody, then at Chuck.

“Eat and sleep first,” he says. “We head out first thing in the morning.”

“Mary Winchester is in Blue Earth, Minnesota.” Castiel tells them. “Or she will be, in four days time.”

The food is so good they’re halfway through their second portions before Dean remembers to ask the big question. Hearing that Mary is so close feels almost anti-climactic.

Chuck stares warily at them, first over the top of his bowl, then over his whisky glass, apprehensive.

“That’s almost due east of here,” Bobby says. “About 135 miles. You should be able to make it in about four days, three if you push it.” 

“What’s she doing in Blue Earth?” Sam asks.

“She is negotiating with a demon,” Castiel explains, as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.

“A demon?” Dean chokes out. When he sees Sam wince, he demands, “ _The_ demon? The Dark Man?”

“I believe they are one and the same,” Castiel nods. “The demon has yellow eyes. Yellow-eyed demons are high up in the demon echelon, which makes sense given what we know of the Dark One who cursed your family.”

“You said all this before.” Dean nods. “You said Mom’s negotiating with this demon. Why would she do that? Why not just kill it?”

“This is a very powerful demon, Dean,” Castiel says. “Killing it will not be easy.”

“We’ll just have to figure it out,” Dean snaps.

“You could use the Colt,” Bobby suggests. “It’s supposed to kill anything.”

“Samuel Colt’s magic gun?” Dean frowns. “I thought that was just a bedtime story.”

“No, it’s real, all right,” Bobby says. He scrapes his bowl clean with the last of the cornbread, washes it down with a shot of whisky. “You just gotta find it, is all.”

“What happened to it?”

“Story goes, Colt last used it in Sunrise, Wyoming in 1861. Then he passed it on to a friend of the family for safekeeping. Man named Elkins.”

“Elkins? _Dan_ Elkins?” Dean can’t believe his luck. Again.

“You know him?”

“Dan’s Lawrence’s Chuck Shurley,” Dean says, and when all eyes turn to him with varying degrees of horror and confusion, he clarifies, “He’s the town drunk.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Bobby grouses. “So you just left town without the one thing you need to confront this demon.”

Dean’s heart sinks. “We didn’t know,” he admits. “Elkins never mentioned owning something like that. Hell, I didn’t even believe him when he said he was a hunter.”

“Former hunter,” Sam corrects. “Pretty sure he hasn’t hunted since he moved to town — four years ago, at least.”

“Where did he come from before that?” Bobby asks.

“Came in with a refugee group from Denver,” Sam says. “I think he mentioned he was originally from Wyoming.”

“Doesn’t matter now anyway.” Dean sighs. “We got no way to get that gun, even if Elkins still has it. Even if one of us rode back for it, by the time he caught up and got out to Blue Earth, chances are Mom won’t be there anyway. Not to mention the demon.”

“I believe I can help,” Castiel says.

All eyes turn to the angel.

“How can you possibly help?” Dean demands. “Unless you can fly...” Dean blinks, suddenly understanding. “You can fly.”

Castiel nods. “Using my wings, I am able to travel to Lawrence instantaneously.”

“Which won’t help us,” Bobby notes. “Since the deputies there will shoot you as soon as they see you.”

“So Dean should go,” Sam says. “Can you carry him?”

Castiel nods. “I can transport one or both of you to Lawrence, retrieve the gun, and get back here before we leave in the morning.”

“What are we waiting for?”

“You people are crazy,” Chuck announces. “You’re not my characters. My characters would never be so insane.”

“Welcome to the real world, Chuck,” Dean smirks, winking.

Chuck tosses back another shot and says nothing.

//**//**//

“Dean?”

They’re standing in the saloon in Lawrence, less than a minute after Castiel put the tips of his fingers against Sam’s and Dean’s foreheads and told them to close their eyes.

Dean stumbles, dizzy and nauseous, and Sam catches him.

“Well, that was awful,” Dean notes as he steadies himself on Sam’s arm.

Sam nods. “Agreed. But thanks,” he looks up at Castiel, who observes them with his usual composed curiosity.

Dean feels like a bug under a microscope when Castiel looks at him that way. It’s not pleasant.

“What are you doing here?” The bartender stares at them with a look of confusion. “I thought you left for Sioux Falls nigh on a week ago.”

“Hey Ash,” Dean greets him. “We did. We’re just stopping by to get something. You seen Dan Elkins?”

“Sure, I have,” Ash says. He’s got a glass in one hand, a towel in the other, obviously in the process of cleaning glasses. He tilts his head toward the back corner of the room. “He’s over there, as usual, doing what he does best.”

“Thanks.” Dean tips his hat.

They cross the room to the table where Dan Elkins sits slumped over, not quite snoring but close to it.

“Mr. Elkins?” Dean puts a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We need a word.”

Elkins stirs, lifts his head and blinks at the three men gathered around him. His eyes widen when he sees Sam, and he sits back in alarm.

“The Gunslinger!” Elkins chokes out. “What — I thought you left town!”

“It’s alright, Mr. Elkins,” Dean says. “Nobody’s here to do you any harm. We’re hoping you can help us. We think you have something that could help us kill a demon.”

“A demon?” Elkins blinks. “I’m a vampire slayer.”

“So I hear,” Dean nods. “Heard you were quite the hunter in your day.”

“I was,” Elkins nods. “Taught your daddy a few things.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances, and Sam takes over the questioning. “Mr. Elkins, we understand you have a special gun, a revolver made by Samuel Colt.”

Elkins gives himself away with the startled look he gives Sam. Sam does his best to look reassuring, but he’s just too big. His reputation is too overwhelming.

Then Elkins surprises them.

“Knew you’d come for it, sooner or later,” he says. He seems almost relieved. “They don’t call you The Gunslinger for nothing. Legend of this gun says it’ll always return to them’s that needs it. Makes sense it goes to another Samuel. I shoulda seen that comin’.”

Sam and Dean exchange looks of amazement. “So you’ll give it to us?”

“Of course,” Elkins says. “It’s yours, rightfully.” He looks past them, at Ash, who’s working on a crossword puzzle behind the bar with a dull-tipped pencil. “Hey Ash! Open your safe and bring these fellas the package I gave you to keep.”

“Coming right up, Mr. Elkins,” Ash says, disappearing into the back room with his usual swagger.

Sam and Dean exchange another look. “This seems almost too easy,” Dean comments.

Sam shrugs, makes his “I got nothin’” face.

“The prophecy says, ‘He who wields the weapon will display both skill and ability,’” Castiel says. “‘He shall be known by the name that fits the weapon he wields.’”

“This just gets weirder and weirder,” Dean mutters.

Sam nods, gives his “Agreed” face.

When Ash brings the package, the three travelers stand gaping at its contents for several seconds before Sam reaches out to open it. It’s an old wooden box, carved with protection sigils. When Sam touches it, Dean half expects it to glow or sparkle, but it doesn’t. It opens easily at his touch, almost as if it was waiting for this moment.

Inside the box lies an old revolver and six bullets. Sam picks up one of the bullets, peers closely at it.

“It’s got markings on it,” he announces.

Elkins nods. “Every bullet has those,” he says. “It’s part of the magic. Each one will kill anything supernatural.” He blushes shyly. “I could’ve used them to kill any one of the vampires I hunted, but I never did. Saved ‘em for you, Gunslinger.”

Sam huffs out a breath as he puts the bullet back in the box. “How long have you had it?” he asks, obviously impressed.

“Samuel Colt gave it to me personally in 1861 in Sunrise, Wyoming,” Elkins says proudly. “‘Keep it safe, Dan,’ he said. ‘Some day it’ll be needed.’”

“Forty-four years ago,” Sam breathes. “You must’ve been a kid.”

“About the age you are now, Gunslinger,” Elkins says. He huffs out a breath. “Funny how scared I was when I first heard about you. I think I knew.”

“Sam, we should go,” Castiel says.

Sam and Dean exchange glances again. Dean reads the combination of disbelief and shock in his brother’s face, and Dean’s not having it.

“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. He turns to Elkins. “Now we’re leaving, Mr. Elkins, same way we got here. So don’t freak out on us when we appear to disappear, y’hear? You’re not crazy.”

Sam rolls his eyes, which was the point, so Dean smiles smugly. Whatever stupid antics it takes to get Sam to relax, Dean’s up for it.

He shoots a look at Castiel. “Let’s go.”

Sam tucks the box under his arm, and the next moment they’re standing in the saloon in Sioux Falls, Bobby, Chuck, and Jody staring at them, wild-eyed.

“We got it,” Sam says.


	4. Chapter 4

“Why aren’t we using Castiel’s transportation magic to get us to Blue Earth again?”

Sam’s being such a bitch. He just got an earful of what a hero he is and now he can’t seem to stop trying to rush headlong into danger. It’s making Dean cranky.

They lie side-by-side on Bobby’s living room floor, tucked in for bed because they’ve got a helluva ride ahead of them tomorrow.

“Because if I never have to use that mode of transportation again, it’ll be too soon.” Dean scoots closer against Sam — for warmth, he tells himself. It’s freezing in Bobby’s house. He’s grateful to have a roof over their heads, but they could’ve used a fire.

But Bobby says the old wood stove in the jail is the only one he keeps running. He spends most of his time there, anyway, sleeps in one of the cells because the iron bars make him feel safer.

If the Winchesters freeze to death tonight, it’ll be on the old guy.

“I just think we should get there before Mary does,” Sam says. “We can figure out the lay of the land, get familiar with the territory, work out what we’re gonna do when she gets there. Preparation — “

“Is nine-tenths of the job, yeah,” Dean finishes. “And that’s why we’re gonna ride, so we’ll have plenty of time to plan.”

“Dean, have you ever been to Blue Earth before?”

Dean shakes his head. “And that’s why we’ll send Castiel ahead, let him scope out the area. He can come back and report.”

“Oh, because Castiel has so much hunting experience and would know the best layout when he sees it.” Sam’s voice drips with sarcasm.

“We’ll figure it out from what he tells us,” Dean insists. “How hard can it be? We need a lookout position, so we have the initial advantage when Mom arrives. We assume the demon is meeting her there, so we want to be there when that goes down.”

“In case he possesses her and it’s all over before it starts,” Sam suggests dryly.

“If that’s his game, why meet with her at all? Why negotiate?” Dean says.

Sam thinks for a moment. “Maybe he needs her help.”

Dean huffs out an exasperated breath. “What kind of help could a top-level demon need from a human? He’s got way more power than she does.”

“She’s a psychic, Dean, and a good one. Maybe she knows something.”

“Which he could read her mind to find out,” Dean says. “It’s not like there’s any information she could keep from a top-level demon. And if he can’t read her mind, he can possess her and find out all he needs that way.”

“Maybe he needs her to get something for him,” Sam suggests.

“Or _do_ something,” Dean says, sucking in a breath.

“What are you thinking?”

Dean lets his breath out on a huff. “Maybe there’s something he needs a human to do, something the demon can’t manage because he’d be discovered.”

“So the demon needs a human to do his dirty work,” Sam muses. He shakes his head. “I just don’t see it. What’s demon work that Mary would ever agree to?”

“If he threatened her...”

“Yeah, I could see her doing something for him if the alternative was worse.” Sam nods.

“That would explain why she ran off without telling anybody what she was doing,” Dean says, gritting his teeth. “Leaving her journal behind. She doesn’t expect to come back.”

They lie quietly for a few moments, both lost in thought.

“She should’ve let us come with her,” Dean says finally. “She shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“She was trying to protect us,” Sam says.

“Getting herself killed isn’t protecting anybody,” Dean growls. “She shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“Mary Winchester does exactly what she thinks best, usually without back-up,” Sam says. “That’s just the way she is.”

“Idiot,” Dean mutters.

Sam sighs. “We better get some sleep,” he says, reaching for Dean’s hand under the blanket. He gives it a squeeze. “We got a long ride tomorrow.”

Dean can’t disagree, as much as he wishes Sam would cuddle with him, if only for warmth.

As soon as Sam’s breathing evens out, Dean rolls over, slides his arm across Sam’s chest, and worms his leg between Sam’s.

He drifts off to sleep to the comforting rise and fall of Sam’s chest, draped over Sam’s overheated body, with his face pressed against Sam’s warm shoulder.

It’s better than a wood stove, in all the ways that count.

The day dawns bright and cold, and the horses snort and paw at the hard ground, anxious to get back on the trail. Castiel suggests they stop by the saloon on the way out of town, and as they ride up they find Chuck standing in the doorway, hugging himself for warmth.

“Anything new you can tell us, Chuck?” Dean asks.

Chuck blinks. “Azazel’s not the worst of your troubles.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean glares.

Chuck turns his bleary gaze on Castiel. “It’s the angels,” he says.

Castiel frowns. “Explain.”

“The angels are taking human souls,” Chuck says. “They’re using them to make a powerful sealant around the Gates of Hell to prevent demons from getting out.” He shivers, hugs himself tighter. “They’re using a lot of souls.”

Dean has a flashback to the dream he had years ago, just after they first met Castiel. At the time, the dream felt like a vision, like something that would happen in the future.

“The angels are killing people?” Dean glares at Castiel. “Did you know about this?”

“They’re not killing them, exactly,” Chuck says. “They’re just taking their souls. But trust me, that’s worse. Killing them would be a mercy. Leaving a person without a soul...It’s brutal.” He shivers again.

“They can do that?” Sam and Dean share shocked glances, then turn accusingly to Castiel.

To his credit, Castiel seems as shocked as the Winchesters. “It is technically possible,” he answers. “But removing a soul from its human host is highly irregular. In all my time on Earth, I have never heard of such a thing.”

“So what does this have to do with the demon?” Dean demands.

“Azazel,” Sam breathes. “He called the demon Azazel.”

Chuck nods. “That’s his name. He’s very old, very powerful.”

“But he can be killed,” Dean confirms.

“He can,” Chuck nods. “I’ve seen it.” He glances at Sam, flinches, and Dean has a sudden flash vision of Sam standing tall and proud with his hair and his long coat flying around him as he fires the Colt.

“What does Azazel want with our mother?” Dean demands.

Chuck shakes his head. “He wants her to help him stop the angels,” he says. “He can’t just waltz into their camp on his own. He’s a demon. They’ll recognize him right away.”

“So he’s sending Mary,” Sam says. “She’s human. The angels won’t see her as a threat.”

“Then what is she supposed to do? Ask them politely to stop using human souls as gate sealant?” Dean rolls his eyes.

“This can’t be happening,” Castiel insists, shaking his head. “Angels would never behave this way. Human souls are precious. They’re powerful, yes, but angels would never use them like this.”

“Chuck’s a Prophet of the Lord,” Dean says with a shrug. “According to you, whatever he sees, happens, right?”

Castiel shakes his head, confusion radiating around him like a halo. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Angels behaving like monsters makes sense to _me_ ,” Dean growls. “Possessing people, using people’s souls, killing a few if it’s all for the greater good — sounds about right.”

“Dean, angels don’t interfere in human lives this way,” Castiel insists. “Angels see any human interference as beneath them.”

“Huh,” Dean nods. “Well, maybe they’re making an exception. Maybe the end justifies the means, in this case.”

“That’s not possible,” Castiel insists, but he’s obviously not so certain anymore.

Dean and Sam exchange exasperated looks. “ _You’re_ here, aren’t you?” Dean says. “Interfering with _these_ human lives?” Dean gestures between himself, Sam, Chuck and Bobby.

“That’s different,” Castiel says. “I was sent here to assist your mission.”

“And the mission doesn’t have anything to do with sealing up Hell,” Dean clarifies.

“No,” Castiel says. “It’s not even clear to me why angels would want such a thing. A few demons getting out of Hell hasn’t bothered us before. It’s part of the way the world works. What demons do is beneath us, certainly not something worthy of so much effort.”

Dean shakes his head. “Well, I got nothin’. Bobby? Sam?”

“Sounds like it’s time to hit the road, boys,” Bobby says. “Figure out what you can about what the hell’s happening.”

Nobody can argue with that.

Chuck can’t give them any intel on where the angel camp is located.

“But I can guarantee that demon knows where it is,” Bobby mutters darkly. “Guess you’ll just have to get him to tell you.”

“Right before we kill him,” Sam says, grim and fierce.

//**//**//

Bobby sees them off at the town gates. Sam spends a few minutes weaving protection spells around the town perimeter while Dean watches admiringly.

“Your brother is highly skilled,” Castiel notes. “He would make a formidable ally for Azazel.”

Dean’s hackles go up. “Not gonna happen,” he growls menacingly.

“Azazel may try to seduce Sam,” Castiel warns. “If he finds out we’re coming.”

“Like I said, not gonna happen,” Dean insists. “Sam’s got too much sense for that.”

“He’s also got Azazel’s blood in his veins,” Castiel points out.

Dean turns and glares at the angel. “You said I have it, too.”

“Your blood is diluted,” Castiel says. “Sam and Mary were both directly infected as children.”

“Well, he can’t have any of us!” Dean snaps.

Castiel says nothing.

//**//**//

“I need to check in with Heaven,” Castiel announces after they’ve been on a road for less than an hour. He turns his horse off the trail abruptly and heads up the hillside without another word.

Sam and Dean exchange startled glances.

“Okay,” Dean mutters under his breath. “See ya later, maybe.” They watch until Castiel disappears over the crest of the hill, then head east again. “Think he’ll be back?”

“Yes,” Sam answers. He’s been short-tempered since shortly before they left Sioux Falls but Dean hasn’t dared to ask why.

Now he thinks he knows why.

“What Castiel said back there, about you being an ally of the demon.” Dean takes a deep breath, shakes his head. “You know I don’t believe that, don’t you?”

Sam shifts in the saddle, winces. “You don’t know, Dean,” he says after a moment. “You don’t know what he’s capable of. He’s been in my head. He obviously knew where I was when I was in Boston. He was planning to kill Jessica, probably set the fire that killed all those people in my building. He’s keeping tabs on me, probably knows we’re on our way right now.”

Dean recalls the vision of Jessica’s death that he read in Sam’s mind. He recalls the sense of familiarity as the flames rose around the terrified girl, realizing now that he was looking through Azazel’s eyes, as if he was in the demon’s head.

The psychic connection between Sam and Azazel worries Dean more than he wants to admit, but he’s damned if he’ll let Sam know that.

“He can’t have you, Sam,” Dean insists. “If we stick together, we’ll get through this. We’re stronger together, remember?”

Sam gives him a sad little smile that’s almost a grimace.

“I just don’t know how much of my abilities are because I’ve got his blood in me, you know? How much is really me.”

Dean shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You had six years of on-the-job training, plus four years of top-notch schooling in the magic arts. No natural ability can touch that.”

“Yes, it can,” Sam argues. “Some of the students in my classes were natural born witches. I clearly acquired a little something extra along the way. I can even remember the night it happened.”

Dean shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. What’s important is, you’re _you_ , Sam. Ain’t nothin’ and nobody can take that away from you.”

But Sam remains unconvinced. Dean would do anything to change that, but he has his own doubts, although not about Sam.

The sooner they kill Azazel, the better.

Castiel returns that evening, sullen and glum. The Winchesters set up camp along a small stream, their campfire warded with Sam’s invisibility spells, and they’re just finishing dinner when Castiel rides up. Dean wonders vaguely how Castiel was able to find them, but decides that’s the least of their worries.

“So, how are things in Heaven?” Dean quips. “I can’t believe I just asked that.”

“Michael has issued orders to seal all the gates out of Hell,” Castiel explains. “He put Zachariah in charge of the operation. I believe it is he who came up with the plan to use human souls. Zachariah isn’t overly fond of humans.”

“Can’t you tell him to stop?” Sam asks hopefully.

“Zachariah outranks me,” Castiel says. “It is unlikely he would listen. It’s much more likely that he would send me back to Heaven, permanently.”

“So then we’ll just have to kill him,” Dean announces.

Castiel’s eyes grow wide. “Dean, you cannot simply _kill_ an Angel of the Lord, especially one as high-ranking as Zachariah. Besides, he would know you were coming, _and_ sense your intent, long before you ever got close enough.”

“So angels _can_ be killed,” Sam clarifies.

Castiel peers at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, and Dean thinks he won’t answer. Castiel doesn’t trust Sam, he’s made that more than clear. When he finally answers, it’s a surprise to both Winchesters.

“There is a blade,” he says. “A very special blade.”

“An angel-killing blade,” Sam confirms.

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “There are none on Earth, for obvious reasons. I had one with me when I first arrived, but...”

“But?” Dean prompts.

Castiel looks down, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d swear the angel was embarrassed.

“It was stolen,” Castiel says finally.

“Stolen.” Dean repeats. “How exactly does somebody steal from an angel? You never sleep!”

Castiel’s jaw clenches. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I usually kept it very close. No human could have taken it.”

Dean’s eyebrows go up. “So somebody — some _thing_ — knows you’re here. Besides us, that is.”

“Any idea who took it? Or where it is now?” Sam asks.

“No.” Castiel says, begrudging. Chagrined.

“So we use the Colt,” Dean says. “Sammy can shoot him.”

“You cannot _shoot_ an Angel of the Lord!” Castiel exclaims, indignant.

“Why not? That gun’ll kill anything, right? So why not an angel?”

Castiel stares. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Anyway, Sam and me need some sleep,” Dean continues. “We’ll talk more about it in the morning.”

Castiel stands watch, and for the first time, Dean’s grateful. He might not trust the angel yet, and he doesn’t like Castiel’s attitude towards Sam, but he’s not averse to his help.

There’s worse things than having a guardian angel watching out for them.

The second night on the road to Blue Earth, they bed down in a empty log cabin. It’s Dean’s turn to take care of the horses, and when he returns Sam’s got a fire going in the fireplace, a pot of rabbit stew almost ready to eat.

After supper, Castiel stands guard while Sam lays the salt lines and warding. It’s been days since they’ve seen any sign of supernatural life, but experience has taught them always to be prepared, just in case.

“Ran into a nest of vampires on the road to Lawrence,” Sam tells Dean when they’re settled in for the night on their bed rolls, sharing Dean’s flask of whisky. “Two gals, five guys. All hungry.”

“Not much left out there for them to eat,” Dean comments, taking a sip of the whisky. “You handled them all by yourself?”

Sam nods. “Doesn’t take much when they’re so hungry,” he says. “They’re sloppy. Stupid. Charged at me like it never occurred to them that I had a blade in my hand and knew how to use it.”

Dean smiles, letting the whisky go down warm. The heat of the fire and Sam’s body next to him are making him sleepy. “I miss the days when we hunted together,” he says. “We were a good team.”

“Still are,” Sam says. His hand brushes Dean’s as he takes the flask. A shiver of lust shoots up Dean’s arm, across his chest.

“What do you think you’ll do when this is over?” Dean asks. “You reckon you’ll head back east again?”

Sam snorts out a laugh. “Nah. I’m a Westerner at heart. I’ll stay out here as long as I’m needed, help the settlers protect their farms, help keep the monsters off native land.”

“You’d always be welcome in Lawrence, Sam,” Dean says, trying not to hold his breath.

Sam smiles, but it’s wistful, rueful. “Yeah, probably not,” he says softly. “Too many bad memories. It’s not really my home like it is yours, Dean. Besides, I’m a wanderer at heart. Always was, even when I was little. I’m like Mary, I guess. Can’t stay in one place very long.”

“You think that’s really the way she is? Or is she that way because of what happened to her?” Dean muses.

“Doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?” Sam says. “It’s been a long time since Mary Winchester kept a permanent address, no matter the reason. Hard to imagine she’ll ever change.”

“I guess,” Dean agrees reluctantly. “Sometimes I just wish she’d slow down long enough so’s I could get to know her, is all.”

Sam rolls over, slides his big hand along Dean’s jaw and tips his chin up. “She’s so proud of you, Dean,” he murmurs softly. “All those years I lived with her, she talked about you all the time. You’re her pride and joy, the best thing in her life. Everything she did — everything she _is_ — was to keep you safe.”

Before Dean can return the compliment, before he can insist that Mary loved Sam, too, that she took Sam away to keep him safe, just as she sent him home to Dean when he was four, Sam kisses him.

Sam doesn’t let him say how grateful he is that Mary sent him home to Dean all those years ago so they could grow up together. He doesn’t get to tell Sam how much it means to him that Mary sent him back to Dean when he was eighteen.

Sam’s got other uses for Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s all right with that.

It’s just fine with him.

//**//**//

They encounter a roving pack of werewolves the next day, take them out with minimal struggle. The creatures are weak, tired, hungry without enough human hearts to keep them well-fed. The Winchesters burn their bodies, casting an invisibility spell for the fire. It’s unlikely much else is alive out here, but they’re still careful.

That night they find another abandoned homestead, bed down in another empty log cabin. This one even has an old straw-filled mattress that’s only a little moldy, so the Winchesters sleep in luxury.

Dean’s starting to wonder if there’s something magical about the way they always stumble on an empty house, however rustic, just about the time they’re ready to get some rest for the night.

Either that, or these homesteads were literally spaced with a full-day’s ride between them, which is possible. The Homestead Act let settlers claim all the land they could pace across in a day and build on. Neighbors would be at least a day’s ride away by default.

“I was an accident,” Sam announces when they’re settled down side-by-side that night. “Mary never meant to have two sons. Then when she realized I was on the way, she made sure the demon knew about me. She figured it would keep him from finding out about you.”

Dean’s so shocked at this idea he doesn’t answer at first.

“That doesn’t make sense, Sam,” he protests. “You were the special one. She sent you to us to keep you safe.”

“The curse was passed down from generation to generation,” Sam says. “As long as the child of an infected child was infected by the time he was four, it didn’t matter if there were other children. The demon keeps tabs on his infected children. Mary, Mary’s mother before her, me.” He pauses. “When Jessica’s child is born, the demon will come for him or her. That’s what it does. That’s why I have to stop it.”

Dean’s confused. “But it planned to kill Jessica. How does that fit the pattern?”

“It doesn’t,” Sam admits with a shrug. “Maybe Azazel always had a plan B, you know?”

“And how the hell do you know Mary planned to sacrifice you that way?” Dean’s angry with Mary, protective of Sam at the mere idea.

Sam huffs out a breath. “I could read it in her mind,” he says. “I don’t think she planned consciously to sacrifice either of us, in the beginning. When she left you and your dad, her only thought was protecting you. What happened later was an accident. Afterwards, she saw the pattern for what it was.”

“And she’s been chasing Azazel ever since,” Dean suggests. “Out of vengeance for her parents’ deaths, and for what Azazel did to you.”

The brothers lie quietly for a moment, staring into the fire.

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I just have a really bad feeling about this. Like we’re walking into a trap.”

“Well, if we are, then this might be our last night on Earth,” Dean teases, desperate to lighten Sam’s gloomy mood.

Sam rolls his eyes, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s going to keep going on about his super angsty relationship with the demon that infected him and killed his foster mother.

But when Dean rolls over and cautiously starts feeling him up under his clothes, Sam relaxes and goes with it.

By the sounds he’s making after a few minutes, Dean decides Sam’s probably forgotten his own name, not to mention the demon’s.

Dean counts that as a win.

The morning of the fourth day out of Sioux Falls dawns bright and cloudless again. The ground is frozen solid, and the horses’ hooves make a hollow sound on the hard dirt of the road.

Castiel lets his horse go and flies on ahead to check out the situation in Blue Earth, leaving Sam and Dean alone. There’s no talking now. They talked about everything that needed talking about over the past week, and Dean thinks they’re probably as close as they’ve ever been. Most of the old grudges and resentments have been worked out. They’re on the same page at last.

Just in time for whatever awaits them in Blue Earth.

Knowing there are possibly two battles to come makes them especially edgy. It won’t be enough to defeat the demon. They’ve also got the bad situation with the angels. It might feel a little overwhelming, if they let it, so they focus on what’s right in front of them. The cold road, the empty countryside, the occasional flock of birds flying south, the taste of coming winter on the air, even though it’s late May.

They’ve only been on the road an hour when Remus’ ears perk up. as if she can hear something Dean can’t.

Then he sees it. A lone woman, standing by the side of the road, watching them as they approach. She’s small, petite, blonde. She’s wearing far too few clothes for such a cold day.

“Hello boys,” she coos with a smile.

Her flirtatious vibe is way off the charts, especially given how out in the middle of nowhere they are at the moment.

“Well, hello there, little lady,” Dean drawls, tipping his hat respectfully. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“My father sent me,” the woman says, smirking.

Sam and Dean exchange glances. Okay.

“I’m Meg,” she says, as if the name should mean something to them. “Sam knows me, don’t you, Sam?”

Dean looks at his brother, who frowns in confusion.

“Meg? What are you doing here?” Answering Dean’s obvious question, Sam says, “I met her in school last year. I thought she was a fellow student.”

“Guess again, Sammy,” Meg purrs. She blinks, and her eyes flash solid black, then back to normal again. It happens so fast, Dean isn’t sure he saw what he thought he saw.

A shiver creeps up his spine as Sam’s face falls.

“You’re a demon,” Sam hisses.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” Meg smirks. “You’re not as stupid as you look.”

“What do you want?” Sam demands. “What were you doing at Harvard last year?”

“Just keeping an eye on you,” Meg says. “You and your whore. How’s she doing, by the way?”

Sam’s face clenches with anger. “That was _you?_ ” Dean doesn’t need to read Sam’s mind to see the memory of the fire flash through it.

“Not directly,” she says. “I had a little help from your old friend Brady.”

“Brady?”

“Oh, Sam, I’m disappointed in you,” Meg coos. “You’re usually so intuitive about your friends.”

“Brady’s a demon?” Sam’s horrified. “I don’t understand. He was a medical student. He swore an oath never to harm, just like I did.”

Meg shrugs. “Guess he lied.”

“What are you doing here?” Dean demands.

“And who are you again?” Meg glances at Dean dismissively. “Oh, you’re the brother. The unimportant one.”

Dean’s not sure whether to be insulted or not. “ _You’re_ unimportant,” he mumbles, too caught off-guard to come up with a coherent response.

“What _are_ you doing here, Meg,” Sam repeats, teeth clenched.

“Oh, I’m just here to check on you,” Meg says. “Make sure you’re on your way. My father’s expecting you.”

“Azazel is your father,” Sam guesses.

Meg smiles broadly. “Oh, you _are_ brighter than I thought you were. I’m impressed.”

“What does Azazel want with us?” Dean asks.

Meg gives him her bored, dismissive glance again. “Pretty sure he’s not interested in _you_ , Dean-o,” she says. “It’s Sam here he’s looking forward to seeing again.”

“He can go to Hell,” Sam hisses fiercely.

Meg smiles. “Oh, we’re not planning to go back there any time soon. It’s too much fun up here. In fact, my father wants to get more of us up here to join the party. That’s why we need _you,_ Sam.”

Sam huffs out a disgusted breath. “Right. He needs _my _help. Well, that’s not happening.”__

__“Pretty sure it is, if you want to see your mother again.”_ _

__Sam and Dean exchange glances._ _

__“Azazel’s keeping our mother hostage?” Dean spits out._ _

__“Oh she’s all right, don’t worry,” Meg assures him. “She’s a _hero_. She’s gonna save the world from soul-stealing monsters. She’s gonna fulfill her _destiny_.” Meg spits the words out as if they’re sour berries._ _

__“Meg, do you know where they are?” Sam asks. “The soul-stealing monsters?”_ _

__“My father does,” she says, smirking. “You can help him. Just keep on this road, Sam, and all your questions will be answered.”_ _

__Before they can ask another question, Meg disappears. Wind rises momentarily in her wake, and the horses paw and snort nervously. Both Winchesters stroke and pat their horses reassuringly, steadying their own nerves in the process._ _

__“Well, that was creepy,” Dean mutters._ _

__Sam throws him a look of such genuine distress it takes Dean’s breath away. He’s about to suggest they dismount and sit down to talk when Castiel shows up, invisible wings fluttering and flapping._ _

__All the teleporting makes Dean dizzy, and of course it spooks the horses. They start and snort as Sam and Dean struggle to settle them down again._ _

__Castiel squints. “There was a demon here,” he notes by way of greeting._ _

__“Yeah, you two just missed each other,” Dean growls. “All the popping in and out is spooking the horses.”_ _

__It occurs to Dean that Meg never mentioned Castiel. Maybe he’s beneath notice as much as Dean is._ _

__But somehow Dean doubts that._ _

__“Angels can sense demons, but not so much the other way around,” Castiel confirms. “My presence in Blue Earth was undetected.”_ _

__He reports that the town is deserted, leaving an empty church, some houses, an empty saloon, livery stables, and general store._ _

__“My guess is the meeting will happen in the church,” Castiel says._ _

__“Isn’t that hallowed ground?” Sam asks._ _

__“Powerful demons like Azazel are immune to hallowed ground,” Castiel explains. “He’ll want to demonstrate his power by appearing there.”_ _

__“Any sign of Mom?” Dean asks._ _

__Castiel shakes his head. “Not yet.”_ _

__“Okay, Cas, thanks. We’ll take it from here.” Dean dismisses the angel, anxious to get back on the road._ _

__Since Castiel let his horse go this morning before flying off to Blue Earth, he’s now without a mount, and Dean’s damned if he’ll offer to let the angel share his horse. Or Sam’s._ _

__Castiel can walk if he doesn’t want to fly._ _

____

“I think I should go in alone,” Sam announces when they’re on the trail again, just the two of them, since Castiel decided to fly.

“Oh, hell no.” Dean shakes his head vigorously. “Not gonna happen.”

“You heard what Meg said, Dean,” Sam protests. “Azazel doesn’t care about you. He probably won’t even _ask_ about you. And that’s good, because that means you have a chance to sneak around behind him and get a shot off before he even notices you’re there.”

“Not a good plan, you going in by yourself,” Dean insists. “It’s not safe.”

“I won’t be alone, Dean, that’s the point. While I’m talking to Azazel in the church — on the altar, maybe — you can position yourself — say, in the choir loft — and get off a shot. It may be our only chance.”

Dean grinds his teeth, hating the idea of Sam going in alone. But Sam’s right. They can cover more ground if they split up, surround the demon.

“What about Mom?” Dean chokes out. “What do you think her game is?”

Sam shakes his head. “She’s always trying to be the hero. Meg’s right about that. If she thinks she can use Azazel to help her shut down the soul harvesting, she’ll go along with whatever he wants her to do.”

“What do you think he wants her to do?”

“I don’t know.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Open the Gates to Hell? The one the angels are trying to seal shut?”

“Azazel’s a powerful demon, Sam. Why can’t he open the Hell Gates himself?”

“You got me.” Sam shrugs. “Maybe they’re covered with something demons can’t touch, which would make sense, actually.”

“What can’t demons touch?” Dean wonders. “Iron? Salt?”

“Mary’s journal mentioned devil’s traps, but you have to draw them first, then lure the demon into it. Then it can be exorcised and sent back to Hell.”

“Did she ever do it?” Dean’s impressed that Sam remembers the journal so well. He’s read bits and pieces of it, but completely missed the part about demons.

“Not that I know of. Nobody I know has seen or heard of a real-life demon in years.” Sam shakes his head. “But you heard Meg. Demons walk among us and we don’t even know it.”

“Pretty much what we’d already guessed,” Dean comments. “Not really news.”

Sam bites his lip, obviously troubled. Dean wishes they had time to talk over Meg’s revelation. Learning he’d been watched while he was in school disturbs Sam. Makes him feel guilty, like there might have been something he could’ve done to prevent the deaths of the tenants in his building if he’d just known about the demons.

But Dean knows what Sam will say if he tries to reassure him that those deaths weren’t his fault. They’ve already been over it. Knowing demons were keeping tabs on him isn’t going to make Sam feel any less responsible for what happened.

No matter how much Dean wishes he could make it go away, Sam won’t stop feeling guilty for those deaths. It’s the way he is, and if Dean’s being honest, it’s one of the things he loves most about Sam.

The kid’s got a heart at least as big as the moon.

//**//**//

“Dean? What are you doing here?”

Dean jumps, twists around to bring his knife up, to defend himself from the intruder who managed to sneak up behind him in the choir loft of the abandoned church in Blue Earth.

He recognizes her voice even before he gets a good look at her, manages to stop himself from driving the knife into her chest.

“Mom?”

Mary Winchester emerges from the shadows in the corner of the loft, where she’d obviously been sleeping. Salt lines and the remnants of a meal of dried meat and bread lie next to the pallet that had served as her bed, unnoticed till this moment.

 _Invisibility spell,_ Dean reminds himself. Mary had always been a master of those.

Dean huffs out a breath. “Don’t creep up on a hunter that way. I could’ve stabbed you.”

Mary gives him a doubtful look, and he’s immediately reminded of how good she is. He wouldn’t even know she was here now unless she’d decided to show herself.

“Where’s Sam?”

“He’s down there, summoning the demon,” Dean says.

“He’s what?” Her horrified look makes him feel like a little boy. “He can’t! He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Azazel is too powerful for Sam to face alone.”

“Well, he’s not alone, is he?” Dean reminds her.

“No, Dean, you don’t understand.” Mary shakes her head. “I told Azazel I’d come alone. He’ll think I’m trying to wriggle out of our deal.”

“And what exactly _is_ the deal?”

She stares at him blankly for a moment, and Dean thinks she may wriggle out of telling him.

Then she sighs. “Okay, since you’re here, this is what I need you to do.”

And just like that, Dean finds himself following Mary’s orders.

//**//**//

Of course it doesn’t go as planned. Dean’s supposed to wait in the choir loft until Azazel appears on the altar. He’s supposed to wait for Mary’s signal.

“Sam. So good to see you again.” The demon greets Dean’s brother. “Where’s your mother?”

“I’m right here.” Mary appears from behind the altar, and although Dean can’t see his face, he imagines the demon smiling. “Did you bring it?”

“I did.” Azazel slides a long blade from inside the sleeve of his coat, flips it in his hand. “But I’m not an idiot. I’m not giving it to you until you’re in position, at the camp.”

“Fine,” Mary snaps. “Let’s go.”

“Oh, not you, Mary,” Azazel says. “I’m taking little Sammy on this mission. He’s got all those brand new magic skills. Should be able to get us in and out without a hitch.”

“That wasn’t the deal.” Mary’s voice rises in panic. “I’ve got invisibility spells that can get us close to the right angel. You don’t need Sam.”

“Oh, but you see, I do,” Azazel says. “Little Sammy’s perfect for what I have in mind. When he’s done killing the angel, he can help me open the Gates of Hell. And that’s only the beginning. He’ll make a perfect vessel for my master.”

Dean takes aim, holds his gun steady. It’s killing him to wait. He’s got the demon’s head in his sights.

When Mary makes her move, Dean’s more than ready. He takes the shot, which of course only makes Azazel angry because it’s not the Colt. Sam’s got that.

Azazel looks over his shoulder, straight into Dean’s eyes, then Dean feels his neck snap, hears Mary scream as he drops the gun and crumples in a heap on the floor.

The last thing he hears is the sound of the Colt firing.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean comes to in Sam’s arms.

“Dean!” Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck, hugs him so tight he cuts off Dean’s airflow.

His neck. Azazel snapped his neck.

“Sammy? You’re choking me,” he gasps.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Sam murmurs, easing off so that Dean can sit up.

Castiel stands awkwardly a few feet away. He blinks and narrows his eyes when Dean looks up at him.

“He brought you back, Dean,” Sam says. “You were dead. The demon snapped your neck, and Castiel brought you back to life.”

Dean nods at the angel. “Thanks.” He looks up at Sam. “The demon?”

“We got him, Dean,” Sam glows, dimples on full display. “The plan worked like a dream. Well, except for getting you killed. But you distracted him so I could shoot him, just like we planned. He’s dead, Dean. Really dead.”

“Mom?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Mary says from somewhere off to his left.

Dean twists around, climbs to his feet, shaking off Sam’s helping hand.

“He was gonna take Sam!” Dean accuses. “You said he wanted _you!_ You said Meg lied to us, but she didn’t. He wanted _Sam!”_ He’s shaking with fury, beyond angry. He stalks closer to her, clenching his fists. “You used Sam as bait, and you knew it!”

Mary doesn’t seem particularly fazed by his anger, but at least she has the decency to lower her eyes. “I didn’t know for sure if it would work, Dean. I took a chance.”

“You were willing to sacrifice Sammy to get your revenge,” Dean hisses. He thinks a moment, then adds, “Both of us. You were willing to sacrifice both of your sons to get what you want. What kind of person does that?”

Sam rises to his feet behind him, silent and towering, his body a solid warm wall at Dean’s back.

“We still have work to do,” Mary says after glancing up at them. She’s nervous, but getting her focus back. “We’ve got to stop those angels. What they’re doing is horrible. It’s evil!”

“I will return to Heaven and speak with Michael,” Castiel says. Dean watches him slide something into the sleeve of his coat, realizes what it is before Castiel continues. “Now that I have my blade back, I can explain what’s happened here. I believe Michael will make Zachariah cease his operation.”

“I thought you said they won’t listen to you,” Dean says.

“I do not believe Michael would condone Zachariah’s tactics, if he knew,” Castiel says. “Besides, now that the threat of Hell’s Gates opening has been neutralized, there is no longer a need for the soul-sealant.”

“I hope you’re right,” Mary says.

Castiel turns his cool, blue eyes on her, studying her for a moment before he says, “I am certain of it. But now I must go.”

“So I guess this is goodbye,” Dean says. He’s reluctant to express his gratitude to the angel, but he can’t say he’s minded his company, once he learned to give Sam and Dean their privacy.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees.

“Will you come back?” Sam asks.

“There may be a time when I am assigned to Earth again,” Castiel acknowledges. “I am under no orders to do so currently, however.”

“So we won’t see you again,” Dean clarifies.

“It is unlikely that I would return during the course of your lifetimes, even if I was reassigned to Earth,” Castiel agrees.

Dean frowns. “And you’ll give this guy back his life? Jimmy whats-his-name?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees.

“Can you track down his family? See if they’re still alive? They might like him back,” Sam says. “I know I would.”

Castiel seems surprised. “I can do that,” he agrees.

And just like that, the angel disappears.

“Not even a goodbye,” Dean remarks.

“Good riddance,” Mary says, shuddering. “Those things are horrible. Totally lacking in human sympathy, putting their missions above human lives. If I never see one again, it’ll be too soon.”

“I guess you’re right,” Dean agrees. But he’d be lying if he said he won’t miss Cas. The angel was a friend to them, however unintentionally.

For the first time in their lives, they’d known a monster who wasn’t all bad.

Mary leaves as soon as Azazel’s body is burned.

“It’s not his body,” she reminds the boys. “He was possessing somebody, just like your angel was doing.”

“So where are you headed?” Dean asks as Mary swings into her saddle.

“Back to Oregon,” she says. “There’s hunter training camps that need my help. It’s what I do best.”

Dean can’t argue with her there. Mary’s always been best at looking after other people’s kids.

Dean takes her journal from his saddle bag, starts to hand it to her, but she shakes her head.

“You keep it,” she says. “It doesn’t have anything I need anymore anyway.” She glances at Sam, who’s packing his horse, just out of earshot. She’s already said her goodbyes to her youngest son. “Look after him, Dean. Vengeance is a jealous god. Spending your life going after the things that took your life from you, that’s a sad way to live.”

“I’ll always look after Sam, you don’t need to worry about that,” Dean says, biting back his bitterness. “Anyway, we’ve got a couple of demons loose that need hunting. We’ll be busy doing that for a while.”

Mary nods. “Good luck. Stay safe.”

“Always,” Dean says.

Mary agrees to stop in Sioux Falls on her way to Oregon, to let Bobby know how things worked out, to let him know they’re okay.

The brothers stand side-by-side with their horses, watching as their mother rides out west on the road they came in on. Sam doesn’t seem as bitter about the way she raised him as Dean is. Sam seems grateful for the time he had with her.

Dean wishes he could feel that way. Maybe someday, he will.

//**//**//

“So, after we hunt down Meg and Brady, will you come back to Lawrence with me?”

They’re headed east, bound for Chicago, then on to Boston. Dean doubts the demons will still be there, but it’s a starting place. There are still five demon-killing bullets in the Colt. 

“I know some folks there who’d be mighty glad to have you on the team, Sam,” Dean goes on.

Sam smiles and shakes his head. “You know I’m not one for settling down. I’m happy to visit once in a while if you need some extra spell work done, but that’s about it.”

Dean nods. The air is warmer today. It feels like the climate is heading toward spring again. There’s a lark singing in the meadow, a soft breeze carries the scent of overturned soil.

The thought of separation makes Dean’s chest clench painfully. He won’t survive without Sam, not now. That’s just how he’s made. Somehow, he’s got to convince Sam that they should stay together. It’s the only thing he can think about.

“We make one hell of a team, Sam,” Dean says.

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Maybe we can do that thing you mentioned before,” Dean says. “You know, roaming around, hunting things, helping people, checking in with the folks in Lawrence and Sioux Falls once in a while.”

Sam thinks about that, nods. “Yeah, maybe,” he agrees. “But Dean, I _know_ you. You’re a settler at heart. A natural homesteader. You’re good with the land. You make crops grow, you bring life to dead soil. I watched you while we were growing up. Hell, I wanted to _be_ you.”

Dean huffs out a chuckle. “Seems to me you found your own calling, Sammy. You’re the Wanderer. The Magic Man.”

“I don’t know,” Sam shakes his head. “I keep thinking about that thing Azazel said, about me being a perfect vessel for his master. What if that’s my true destiny? What if everything that’s happened to me is just leading me deeper and deeper down some dark path?”

Dean clenches his jaw and shakes his head sharply. “No way, Sam. Azazel’s dead. You killed him. Whatever he had planned for you died right along with him. It’s over.”

“Demons kept tabs on me, Dean,” Sam goes on like he didn’t hear. “What if that’s always been true? What if there were demons watching me when I was little? When I lived with you? While I spent those six years in the Oregon training camps?” Sam’s eyes widen. “What if there are demons in Sioux Falls and Lawrence, keeping watch over me?”

“Now you’re just being paranoid,” Dean insists. “You know damn well there aren’t any demons in Lawrence. I would know.”

“Maybe,” Sam mutters, biting his bottom lip dubiously.

“Anyway, the demons don’t seem interested in me, so I guess you’ll just have to keep me around as your good luck charm. Your bodyguard.” Dean winks, trying to lighten Sam’s mood. “We’re like a force of nature together.”

Sam tips his chin skeptically. “Oh yeah?”

“Sure.” Dean’s on a roll. “We’re good for each other. A natural team. I’ll be your rock and you can be my eagle. The Earth and the Sky. The Homesteader and the Master Mage. The Sheriff and the Gunslinger. They’ll write stories about us.”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Chuck Shurley’s already doing that,” he notes. “For what it’s worth.”

Dean chuckles. “We’ll be legends of the West, like Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane.”

When Sam smiles, dimples creasing his cheeks, slanted multi-colored eyes sparkling, Dean figures that’s all he needs. 

He wins, for now.

They bed down side-by-side in the open that night, next to a warded campfire, stars shining brightly overhead. It’s definitely warmer.

Dean turns his head, studies Sam’s perfect profile for a moment. His brother lies perfectly still, staring at the sky, and Dean can feel his thoughts. They make Dean uncomfortable, on edge. There’s something nagging at the base of his skull.

“You’re thinking again,” Dean warns.

“Yeah, I know.” Sam’s face screws up. “I was just thinking of that thing Castiel said. About how we were created as soulmates, before we were born.”

Dean frowns. “Castiel said that?”

Sam nods. “On that first day out of Sioux Falls. You were taking care of the horses while I fixed supper, and I asked him about souls, about the thing he said about how powerful they are.”

“Yeah, I remember that part,” Dean says with a nod. “And out of the blue he told you we were soulmates from before birth?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, pretty much. He said God made us this way for a reason.”

Dean’s eyes go wide. “ _God_ made us this way? What the hell, Sam?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know, Dean. That’s just what he said.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that,” Dean admits.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “It’s like we were set up by God and the angels all along.”

Dean thinks about that for a moment. “They sure went to a lot of trouble just to kill one demon,” he notes doubtfully.

“I’m not sure that’s all it was about,” Sam says. “I got a feeling there’s more to it than just that one mission.”

“You mean, we’re like sleeper agents for the angel secret service?” Dean suggests. “Whenever they need some dirty work done, they’ll send another angel in with another prophecy for us?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “Maybe.”

Dean huffs out a disgusted breath. “Well, I gotta say, I’m not too excited about _that_ idea.”

“Me, neither.” Sam shifts, scoots closer. “I just get a feeling they’re not done with us, you know?”

A shiver goes up Dean’s spine. “You think Castiel managed to shut down the soul harvesting?”

“I hope so,” Sam says.

His hand finds Dean’s under the blanket and they tangle their fingers together.

Dean tries not to think too deeply about what Sam said. The idea of being anyone’s puppet makes Dean’s hackles go up, but the thought that the angels have plans for Sam makes him especially defensive. Protective.

Those bastards can’t have him, any more than Azazel could.

Sam belongs to Dean.

//**//**//

A few days later, they get the answer to Dean’s question.

A group of humanoid monsters ambushes the Winchesters as they’re leaving camp one morning. It’s not immediately apparent what they are, since they look human, and it isn’t until after Sam shoots one that they realize that the creatures are, in fact, human.

The creatures mostly scatter after their companion goes down, but Dean manages to grab hold of one before he can get away. It’s a young man, not quite full grown. He shrinks away, cowering in fear as Dean shoves him up against a tree and holds him there, pinned.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

“Don’t hurt me, mister!” The boy cries. “I ain’t gonna kill anybody! I promise! The others — they made me join them!”

Dean eases up on his hold. “Who are you people? Where the hell did you come from?”

“We — we got away,” the boy stammers. “Or maybe they let us go. Not too sure about that.”

“Who?” Dean demands. “Who let you go?”

“The angels,” the boy says. “They had us penned in on a farm near Milwaukee. We were penned in like cattle. They took my folks, did something to them so that they went crazy, started attacking people, trying to kill anybody they could get hold of. I — I ran. Fell in with this group a couple of days ago. I swear I didn’t know they were crazy too!”

Sam moves into his field of vision, and Dean reads the shock on his face, reads the thoughts in his mind before he speaks.

“They’re just people, Dean,” he says. “I just killed an innocent person!”

Dean steps back, lets his arm drop from across the kid’s throat.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Alan,” the kid says, rubbing his neck. “Alan Corbett.”

“Well, Alan Corbett, I’m gonna guess that you’ve been keeping company with a pack of soulless crazies. Now, you’re welcome to ride with us for a while if you want. We’re headed to Chicago, or at least the vicinity of that town, since I’m guessing there’s not much of anybody still alive there. Then we’re pushing on east to Boston.”

The kid gives Sam a dubious look. “I’ve got an aunt and uncle in Cleveland,” he says.

“Well then,” Dean nods, reassuring. “We’ll drop you off in Cleveland.”

Alan nods, but he doesn’t look happy, or appreciative.

They take time to bury the body in the softening ground before heading east again. Dean and Sam trade off letting Alan ride while they walk beside him. The boy seems shaken up, and he’s rightfully suspicious of them, but he’s happy to tell them all he knows about the angels and their soul-harvesting operation.

“They herded us like cattle,” he says. “They had special blades, and if one of us got out of line, they used some kind of smiting power that burned the eyes right out of our heads. Nobody crossed them after seeing that happen.”

“How long ago did they — collect you?” Dean asks.

“About six months or so,” Alan says. “It took us over a month just to walk to the farm. They kept collecting more people as we went. They set a brutal pace because they didn’t sleep, and they rarely let us rest. Old people fell behind, and the angels — I think they might have reaped their souls right on the spot. Left the bodies by the road to rot.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances. Sam’s sorrow is etched into his beautiful face, and it makes Dean’s chest ache.

“When we got to the farm, they penned us in, left food and water in troughs. We slept on boards on the ground, huddled together for warmth. There were guards everywhere. Werewolves prowled the perimeter, in case we managed to escape.”

Alan takes a deep breath, pauses for a minute, and Dean waits.

“They came for us in groups of ten or twelve at a time,” Alan says finally. “My mother hid me under the boards, in the mud, to keep me safe, when the angels came for us. I stayed behind. When my parents returned, they weren’t my parents any more.”

Dean glances at Sam, whose jaw clenches angrily.

“The ones who were changed were let go,” Alan says. “But some of them stayed at the farm, out of some kind of primal need for community or something. The pens got more and more murderous. My parents — ”

He shudders, and Dean holds his breath, thinking maybe the kid won’t finish his story.

“Anyway, about a week ago, a bunch of us got out,” Alan concludes. “We just ran and ran. The changed ones didn’t seem to even know where they were going. The group I was with, they were quieter than most. Seemed to be able to co-exist without killing each other, and they didn’t seem to mind me tagging along, so I thought they were okay. I guess I was wrong.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances. They’re not sure how much of the boy’s story to believe. He’s been traumatized, that’s obvious. He’s seen his own parents kill and be killed. He probably did whatever he needed to do to fit in with the group he’d been with, maybe even including killing, but the Winchesters decide to let it go. Out here, in the wilderness, the laws of civilization just don’t apply anymore.

“One thing’s pretty clear,” Dean says to Sam. “That guy you killed back there, he’d probably done some killing himself, and in my book that means he wasn’t an innocent. Y’hear me?”

Sam nods, but his face is full of misery. “He was still human.”

“If you can call it human once you don’t have a soul,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Seems to me that guy wasn’t even the same person he used to be before he had his soul ripped out of him. He might have been a decent person once, but afterwards, he was something else.”

Dean thinks for a minute, then huffs out a breath. “Damn. Chuck was right. There’s things worse than being dead.”

They bed down in an old barn that night, sharing their food with Alan. He watches with wide eyes as Sam wards their camp, silently crosses himself when Sam’s magic causes the fire to flare and flicker. He settles warily into a corner of the barn where he’s not too close to the brothers. He obviously doesn’t trust them.

When Dean wakes up the next morning, Alan’s gone.

Sam shakes his head. “He took the last of our food. I’ll need to do a little hunting before we can head out.”

Sam’s as good with a bow and arrow as he is with a gun. The Winchesters are on their way again by noon, bellies full, alert to any more roving bands of soulless humans. They give Chicago a wide berth just before sundown, find an abandoned meat-packing plant to camp out in for the night. Sometime in the night they’re awakened by gunshots, followed by screams that are abruptly cut off. Sam starts to get up to investigate, but Dean grabs his arm, shakes his head.

The brothers lie awake the rest of the night, but hear nothing more. In the morning they smell smoke, find the horizon obscured by haze to the north, where Chicago lies.

“More crazies, pillaging and looting,” Dean notes.

Sam shakes his head. “We shouldn’t call them ‘crazies,’” he says. “They’re not mentally ill. Being soulless isn’t an illness.”

“They’re sure as hell not healthy,” Dean says.

“How many of them are out there, do you think?”

“Who knows?” Dean shrugs. “Alan made it sound like hundreds. Maybe a couple thousand or so, maybe more.”

“Great,” Sam says. “First monsters, then demons and angels, now soulless humans.”

Dean shrugs again. “So we’ve got our work cut out for us. Nothing new.”

They bed down that night in the open, under the stars, and Sam has a dream that terrifies both of them. In it, Sam stands in front of a mirror wearing a white suit and holding a red rose. He gazes at himself, appraising, his expression at once confident and seductive.

“Hello, Sam,” says the Sam in the mirror.

Sam and Dean wake up simultaneously and stare at each other in horror.

“That wasn’t me,” Sam chokes out.

Dean nods. “I know.”

They don’t talk about the dream, and it doesn’t come again, but they both know it wasn’t just a dream.

The sooner they kill those demons, the better.

//**//**//

When they arrive at the western gates of Cleveland, Rufus Turner lets them in.

“Missouri said you’d be coming today,” he says as he greets them with gruff hand shakes and back slaps.

Rufus was an old family friend, someone who’d been in Dean’s life as long as he could remember. He and Bobby were hunting partners, back before Dean was born, before his parents were married. Whatever happened to separate them, Dean never knew.

“Heard you were King of Cleveland,” Dean says, grinning. “Keeping this place alive, that’s the word out west.”

“We’re all out west, son,” Rufus reminds him. “This city stays alive because we keep out the monsters. And because we’ve got a working railroad.”

The place is unlike anything Dean’s ever seen. The streets are bustling with carts and carriages and people, even a few motor vehicles. Rufus leads them down a side street to the hotel he runs on Ontario Street, which has a view of the lake and the river both. It’s the most luxurious place Dean’s ever seen, with indoor plumping, electricity, and private livery stables for the horses. The grounds include a groomed park with trees, shrubs, and flowers. Well-dressed guests stroll the pathways with parasols and fashionable hats.

Dean’s never seen so many people in one place.

“Missouri says you killed a demon,” Rufus says as he shows them into the hotel bar.

“Sam did,” Dean says proudly. “He’s got quite a reputation out west.”

“The Gunslinger,” Rufus nods, signaling the waiter to take their drink order. “So I’ve heard.”

When Dean explains about the angel soul-harvesting farm and its aftermath, Rufus gives a low whistle.

“That’s some nasty business,” he comments. “I’ve heard about roving gangs of bandits, but this sounds like nothing but murder and mayhem. We’ll keep an eye out in case any of them decide to try to break in here.”

“We had a young man traveling with us, name of Alan Corbett,” Dean says. “Said his aunt and uncle live here.”

“Corbett, Corbett...” Rufus thinks for a moment as the drinks arrive. “Man who runs the hardware store on Superior had a sister who married a Corbett. Went west by wagon train about ten years ago. They had a little boy, I believe.”

“Well, if he makes it here alive, he’s okay,” Dean says. “His parents didn’t make it, though.”

“Funny you should mention angels,” Rufus says, taking a long sip of his whisky. “We had a guy show up here from the west about a week ago. Said he’d been possessed by an angel for the past few years and he was looking for his family.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances.

“Castiel?” Dean asks. “He’s here?”

“That’s the angel’s name,” Rufus says. “He’s gone, but the guy he possessed is here. He lives on Bond Street, right behind Grace Church. I think he was a minister before he got possessed.”

Dean’s not sure how to feel about Jimmy Novak. He feels bad about what happened to him, but he owes Castiel his life.

Sam gets it. He leans across the table, catches Dean’s eye.

“We don’t have to see him,” he says softly. “Castiel kept his promise, gave Jimmy his life back. That’s good enough.”

“He’s probably not going to want to see us, anyway,” Dean agrees. “We’re the reason Castiel possessed him in the first place.”

“Novak told us you set him free,” Rufus says, taking another sip of whisky. “He seemed pretty grateful.”

“Nah, we’re good,” Dean assures him. “We’re headed out tomorrow anyway. On to Boston. Got us a coupla demons to track down.”

Rufus insists they stay in the hotel at his expense. “It’s not often I get to host heroes of the Wild West in my own hotel,” he says. “Now I can say sheriff Dean Winchester and Sam Campbell the Gunslinger slept here. It’ll attract customers.”

Dean rolls his eyes, then catches Sam’s dimpled grin and smiles despite himself.

The hotel room is like Dean imagines Heaven to be. He strips down to try the shower almost before he shuts the door. He washes off weeks of road-dirt and grime, watches the water around his feet turn from dark gray to clear in the clean ceramic bathtub. He takes his time shaving, uses the toilet with utter fascination. He flips all the light switches, just to watch the room flood instantaneously with bright, electric light. The hotel has radiated heat, but it’s too warm out to need it. He wonders what it would be like to sleep in a room that was constantly and automatically heated in the winter.

Sam rolls his eyes when Dean finally exits the bathroom, a new man from head to toe.

“Your turn, Sammy!”

They take the elevator to the lobby for dinner, just because they can and Dean’s never been in one before.

Rufus meets them in the lobby, escorts them into the hotel restaurant for dinner. There are white cloths on all the tables, candles and flowers and china as well. Dean feels like a country fool. At Sam’s direction, he left his hat in his room, and his head feels naked. Exposed. His boots clomp noisily on the hardwood floors. They leave dust on the Persian rugs.

Rufus escorts them to a table, and the three men settle into delicate spindly chairs that Dean thinks he could probably break in half with one hand.

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean starts at the sound of a familiar voice behind him, and when he turns, for a moment he thinks he’s seeing the angel he thought he’d never see again.

“Cas?” The word slips out before he realizes.

The man blushes, smiles nervously, and Dean sees his mistake. This isn’t Castiel.

“It’s Jimmy Novak, Mr. Winchester,” the man says softly, and Dean sees the difference right away. Unlike the confident, arrogant angel, this man is shy and retiring. Reflective.

“I heard you were here, and I just wanted to come by and say thank you,” Novak says. He glances at Sam. “To both of you. I thought I’d never see my family again, and they’d pretty much given up on me, too.”

“Your family...”

“We’re dining right over there, with Amelia’s parents,” Novak says, indicating a table just a few feet away, where an older couple, a pretty blonde woman and a teenager who looks like an older version of the little girl in the picture Dean saw all those years ago. They look like nice people, just like Novak himself.

Dean shifts awkwardly and glances at Sam, whose forehead wrinkles have wrinkles. He’s as much at a loss as Dean is.

“You — you remember everything?” Dean asks because he can’t help himself. “About being possessed, I mean.”

“Not all of it,” Novak replies. “A lot of the time, I just slept, I think. Being possessed by an angel is — overwhelming. It’s a little like being strapped to a comet. But there were moments when I was aware of what was happening. When you told Castiel to find my family and let me go, he did. I’m not sure it would have occurred to him otherwise. So thank you.”

He backs up, obsequious. “I’ll leave you to your dinner.”

Silence reigns after he leaves for several seconds until Dean finally says, “Well, that was awkward.”

“I think we need drinks,” Sam suggests, and Dean shoots him a grateful look.

Dinner conversation turns to monster-hunting, the situation on the ground in the west, and updates on the monster infestations in various East Coast cities. Hunter militia seem to be keeping things under control in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, but Washington, D.C. and several cities in the south have been overrun and abandoned. The word from across the pond is similar, with the U.K. and Ireland doing better than the continent by virtue of being islands.

“Most monsters don’t like to swim,” Rufus notes. “And werewolves and vampires make terrible steamship passengers. Most port authorities catch them before they can even board a boat.”

“You’re doing so well here,” Sam says, glancing around the room at the dark wood paneling and chandeliers. “Are there any other midwestern cities that survived?”

“Not that I know of,” Rufus admits. “I know St. Louis is down, Indianapolis, too. Toledo. Detroit. Columbus.”

“Columbus?” Sam’s surprised. “I passed through there on my way to Boston four years ago and they were holding their own then.”

Rufus shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. We had scouts going there periodically, checking on things, but this last time, they didn’t come back. Sent another pair, same thing. If Columbus is still alive, then the country between here and there has gone to the monsters.”

“Pittsburgh?”

“Pittsburgh’s still alive and kicking,” Rufus says.

“So trains are getting through,” Sam clarifies.

“Oh hell yes,” Rufus nods. “That’s how you’ll go east tomorrow, I take it? Sure takes a lot of time off your travel. Your horses can ride, too. You’ll be in New York in less than a day’s ride by rail.”

Sam’s gaze wanders, and Dean catches him watching the Novaks. Something clenches in Dean’s belly, and despite the excellent food he’s suddenly not hungry. He skips dessert, has another whisky instead, and he and Sam retire early so they can be up for the train ride in the morning.

Dean’s excitement about train travel dampens when he thinks about Sam’s face as he watches the Novaks. Sam looks wistful, maybe rueful. He’s got regrets.

“You can go find her, you know,” Dean says later, when they’re back in their room getting ready for bed. “After we gank the demons, you should go find her. Tell her you’re sorry. Beg her to take you back.”

Sam looks up from his book, startled. He’s stripped down to nothing, sitting up in bed with a lamp and a book, sheet pulled up to his waist. It breaks Dean’s heart just to look at him.

“What?” It takes Sam a moment to catch up, but then he gets it. “Dean, you know that’s not happening. I already told you that.”

Dean sits down on his side of the bed to pull his boots off, then stands up to unbutton his pants.

“Sammy, I saw the way you looked at the Novaks tonight,” he says as he takes his suspenders off, drops his pants and steps out of them. “I saw that look of longing. You miss her.”

“Well, of course I miss her, Dean,” Sam says. “Don’t you miss Cassie? Don’t you sometimes wish things could’ve been different?”

Dean doesn’t, so it’s hard to relate. Dean’s always only ever wanted Sam. Only Sam.

“You can still have that, is all I’m saying,” Dean says. “A family, I mean. You don’t have to spend your life on the road.”

Dean pulls his shirt off, leaving his underwear on as he climbs into bed next to Sam. Sam’s more comfortable in his skin than Dean is; always has been. Dean’s always been a little less sure of himself, a little more insecure about his body. It’s something about Sam that he envies, but he loves it, too.

“With you,” Sam finishes Dean’s sentence. “I don’t have to spend my life on the road with _you_.”

Dean’s heart sinks. His cheeks flush and his eyelids flutter nervously. He can’t look at Sam to save his life.

“Well, yeah,” he stutters. “I — I guess. You can spend your life on the road alone, if you want to...”

“Jesus, Dean!” Sam slams the book down on the bed between them and Dean jumps. “Why you gotta be this way?”

“What way?” Dean’s eyes widen. “What am I doing?”

Sam rubs his jaw and shakes his head. “Like you can’t believe you’re as lovable as you are. Like you can’t believe you’re lovable _at all_!”

“I — I don’t know what you mean...”

“Damn it!” Sam reaches across the bed, takes Dean’s face between his big paws and holds it steady as he stares into Dean’s eyes. “I wanna spend my life with _you_ , Dean,” he hisses. “I choose _you_ , don’t you get that yet? It’s always been you. I don’t know what I thought I was doing, trying to live some normal life with Jessica, but it didn’t take, y’hear? I couldn’t do it because I’m in love with you, you idiot!”

“Oh.”

Dean eyes fall to Sam’s lips, his own lips parting automatically.

“Damn you,” Sam growls, pulling Dean against him with one arm, still holding his face with the other. Sam’s kiss is possessive, devouring, thorough. Sam rolls him over so that he’s almost on top of Dean, nudging his legs apart impatiently as Dean scrambles to hold on.

“Mine,” Sam growls against Dean’s lips, his jaw, his neck. He kisses bruisingly down the column of Dean’s throat, tugging on his clothes, yanking them out of the way so he can kiss down Dean’s bare chest and back up to his neck. He nips along Dean’s jaw to his ear, sucks the tender earlobe into his mouth and bites it, making Dean yelp.

“You’ll always be mine,” Sam pants into Dean’s ear. “I’ll always be yours. Soulmates or not, we’re a force of nature together, like you said. There’s nobody I’d rather spend my life with, you hear me?”

“Y — Yeah,” Dean stutters, choking on the waves of lust and emotion he can read in Sam’s mind, unable to separate what he feels from Sam’s feelings, overwhelmed by both. He trembles, wraps his legs around Sam’s waist and holds on for dear life as Sam’s hands and mouth work him over till he’s a quivering mess of nerve-endings.

Later, when Sam’s pushing inside him, it’s like the first time they did this, all those years ago, that time Dean pushed into Sam’s body for the first time and felt like he was finally home. Sam growls and possesses and devours, fiercely taking what he wants, intent on making Dean feel owned and wanted and loved, and it’s like a beginning, all over again.

Sam and Dean are the Alpha and the Omega, the Yin and Yang, the two energy forces that make something new when they combine. Something strong. Something greater than the whole.

When they finally lie quiet, sated and exhausted, Dean runs his fingertips lightly over Sam’s veined arms, over his powerful shoulders and chest. He floats on a blanket of love and tenderness so exquisite, so perfect, it doesn’t feel real. It occurs to him that there must be other Sams and Deans in other universes, on other Earths, in other timelines. There’s too much love between them for just two men to contain.

As Dean drifts off to sleep, he recalls the fearful vision of the man in the white suit and he’s not afraid. He’s confident they can win out against anything, no matter how evil. With this love, Sam and Dean will conquer all.

Those scary sons-of-bitches ain’t got a chance in Hell.

_fin_


End file.
